The boy was fucking a box of fish sticks. He couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old. His parents were standing next to him in the frozen foods section and paid him no attention. He had grabbed a box of “Mrs. Barnacle’s Old Sea Dog” brand fish sticks out of the freezer… More Geek City Apocalypso. [Chapter 1]
for everybody who bet the back line… We were at some breakfast joint on Hollywood boulevard. Everybody was smoking cigarettes. They all had tattoos, piercings, they all looked the same. It was a Sunday morning and the inside tables were full, so we sat at one of the metal tables on the sidewalk. Cars passed… More Geek City Apocalypso. [Introduction]
by Joe Pachinko People are crazy. They will do anything at any time, and God help you if you look for reasons. -Kurt Vonnegut 3: Life & Love Among the Crab Skulls The day that had begun so bright and full of promise but which ended stumbling over a used tampon near the dead and… More The Winos Have Pissed the 46th Avenue Trees to death.
by Joe Pachinko Borgnine and McGurgle were going through boxes of old seeds in the McJunkin Corporation warehouse and they were freezing. Their breath rose around their heads like smoke. The warehouse was filthy. 100 years of dust covered everything. McJunkin Corporation employees had put off cleaning it for so long it was now impossible.… More The Boneyard.
by Joe Pachinko Dreamclouds swimming across a forgotten sky…late afternoon throws a shadow down a cobblestone alley in the old quarter of the city…a skeleton jumps out…a predator drone flies over…a beautiful woman takes her clothes off… Security guards had been following me around the museum all morning. They pretended they were not following me.… More I am Disinterested Yellow.
“Don’t you drink? I notice you speak slightingly of the bottle. I have drunk since I was fifteen and few things have given me more pleasure.” – Ernest Hemingway The Indonesian Government recently sentenced a 56 year old British woman to death by firing squad for smuggling cocaine. “In its verdict, a panel of Denpasar… More Up the Ass of the Drug War…..
by Joe Pachinko “So why do you take drugs?” “Oh man! Ain’t nothin’ feels better than that. In my life, around here ain’t nothin’ gonna make you FEEL like that. Ain’t nothin’ make you sicker than that neither.” The psychologists stood around the two ex-junkies on the ghetto street corner asking questions. The camera was… More The Squidgy Butt Parade.
by Joe Pachinko There may be love, but there IS no “Economy”. Relax America. Go back to sleep. Your leaders are in control. You’re free to do as we tell you. – Bill Hicks BUT, I ordered another drink anyway. It’s dark and cool inside Original Joe’s tonight. This is the last bar of its… More There is no economy.
di Joe Pachinko “What you in for man?” the Mexican kid asked me. He looked about 17 years old. “DUI, weed.” “They caught me with a fuckin’ BOMB ese’,” he said. “I had a fuckin’ molata man. I was gonna blow some motherfuckers UP ese’.” “A mulatta? What the fuck is that?” “No ese’, a… More 8 Days in the Corporate Yard.
by Joe Pachinko “Magandang umaga motherfucker.” “Thanks. Who farted?” “McSweeney, sir.” “Fuck you.” McSweeney said. There was a burst of machine gun fire in the jungle to the east. There was the sound of bullets clacking in the bamboo grove and the sweet black stench of bamboo on fire. Smoke fingers drifted in gingerly feeling… More Jitney cross the shit river.
It was at some coffee shop in Albuquerque. Seven or eight poets had read, all of them dressed in vaguely Navajo-looking clothing, or natural fiber pastels which matched the decor. They read poems about the desert, they read poems about coyotes, mesas, their dead children, corn gods, the moon, and their Latino housekeepers, and all… More Todd Moore: graced with guts, gutted with grace…
by Joe Pachinko Blatz sat in his high backed chair in his corner office and farted. He tried to fart again with no success. He admired his desk. It was gloriously uncontaminated by paperwork. There was nothing on it but a computer, a phone, and a picture of his wife. He looked at the picture.… More The McJunkin Corporation.
by Joe Pachinko Garbuglia limped down what was left of the rubble filled street. Much of the ruins were still in flames or smoldering and the air was full of vile smelling smoke. Odd things were left intact amongst the broken garbage. A bathroom with the roll of toilet paper still hanging in its’ dispenser,… More Armageddon Street.
by Joe Pachinko “The custodians of the true faith cannot logically acknowledge tolerance of heresy to be a virtue.” – Robert Heinlein Renzo the Dwarf came dancing by, dressed in his Jester costume. “Burning day!” he sang happily, “Burning Day! WHEEE!” and danced off down the cobblestone street, bells jingling. This made Celia laugh. Squarcio… More Heretic.
by Joe Pachinko Habibs’ Middle East & West Deli was a greasy little hole in the wall south of Market on Folsom St. It was the last stop on my delivery route so I’d grab a bagel dog or a schwurma burger there and take a break before heading back to Oakland. It was about… More A dance between midnights.
by Joe Pachinko “Our Predator Drones carry out the policies of righteousness and goodness,” some politician on the T.V. news said. We were eating dinner at the Boscarellis’, they kept the news on while we ate. “Have some more insalate,” Mama Boscarelli said. “I make this from my garden with three kinda onions!” On the… More The Doomfuckers #3.
by Joe Pachinko I yelled down the bar for another beer and when I turned back there was a tit in my hand. “That’s a tit,” I said. “Mmm, that’s a nice tit,” she said. It was. I was used to disapproving looks from people. Those looks that say it all. Those looks that say… More The night I fucked the bearded lady.
by Joe Pachinko If you become famous in the U.S., I mean really famous, they’ll put your name on the Hollywood Boulevard sidewalk and people will walk on it. For all eternity. Dogs will shit on it, drunks will throw up on it. Cigarette butts will be squashed out on it, some may even kiss… More The Scorned Genius of William Kotzwinkle or, Why the Human Race is Sucking Satan’s Cock.
This is not a book review. How could I make it? I’m one of the author’s friends and it could be read as a conflict of interests. I’m not Obama or part of the Bush’s clan, neither I’m a Clinton’s relative, nor a fucking lobbist, so I have to justify my personal position. A couple… More Geek City Apocalypso, the new book of Joe Pachinko.
by Joe Pachinko Smokestacks. I’d sit in the car during the lunch half-hour and look at the smokestacks on the roof of the factory. Watching the smoke pour out and dance over the gravel parking lot. Smoke, it must have been steam, it was a laundry so it must have been steam. Sit there and… More Alton Greenberry was here 1992.
by Joe Pachinko “YOU poked ME on Facebook first! Let’s just get that straight. I didn’t poke you, YOU poked ME!” the e-mail read, “I seriously cannot beLIEVE you actually POKED me!” “I can’t believe you actually give a shit about it,” Oroville McGurgle said out loud, deleting the e-mail and pouring another glass of… More WU MING: The Writer Who Never Was….
by Joe Pachinko “Criminal means, once tolerated, are soon preferred.” – Edmund Burke They had brought bread and water twice, Jesse must have been there two days. The cell was too small for him to stand up in, the walls and floor were wet, and he was naked. His hands and feet were shackled. There… More If you are not guilty, you have nothing to worry about.
by Joe Pachinko Lazlo got to the tree line just as the first Hellfire Missile exploded. There was a gargantuan cracking of trees and a fire cloud shot through the forest with the smell of burnt wood and chemicals. He got up, smoke rising from the back of his legs, backpack, and the hair on… More Send in the drones.
by Joe Pachinko Copyright © 2010 Joe Pachinko 250 Stephens Lane Ben Lomond, CA 95005 The ants crawled in and out of the rotten hamburger. The alley was full of it. And flies. Yeah, lots of flies. And the smell. “I’ve been walking around all day with your jizz up my ass,” Holly said. Dickson… More The Beef Peach.
[Traduco dall’inglese il post di ieri di Joe Pachinko] Molto é stato detto sullo scrittore Philip Kindred Dick; su come tenesse un vasetto di anfetamine sul suo tavolo da lavoro; su come fosse così povero da comprare carne equina in un negozio per animali per far mangiare la sua famiglia mentre sfornava centinaia di racconti… More Philip Kindred Dick.
by Joe Pachinko As I sit here writing, in America, what I am doing becomes more and more illegal. Nobody has ever liked it much. The writing. As years pass the reactions have been getting progressively more angry and strange. I was in a bookstore in Portland, Oregon doing a reading to promote my first… More *?&*^%*@$#*!
by Joe Pachinko [This short story has been censored all over the web, excepting digg.com, for its contents. I’m publishing it to accomplish what I’m concerned about: freedom of speech.] Useless, useless as a nun’s cuntfart useless. Punch the numbers into the machine. A microwave oven for the brain with extra buttons, a glorified blender.… More I Got an Asshole Transplant and It Rejected Me.
The entire culture is bankrupt, the system doesn’t work and it is INSIDE us. Human nature has to evolve. The technology is evolving like crazy but our species is the same. It could be 1012 instead of 2012. Torture, secret dungeons, holy wars, 99% peasants and 1% rulers etc. But we can see it on… More Do you need a tongue scraper?
by Joe Pachinko “How many did you take?” Fetus fingers. Cornwallis looked down at his hands and they looked like fetus fingers. Stumps, some of them and each hand had eleven or twelve of them. Growing, receding, pollywog type, little, growing, alive, stumps of his…stumps… “How MANY did you TAKE?” the doctor again demanded. “Arrrgghamumble… More Spooging into the void.
by Joe Pachinko I was born on Auto Row. It’s a long street that’s called Broadway on the Oakland side and College Avenue on the Berkeley side. It runs in an unbroken line from the University of California all the way down to Jack London Square at the Port of Oakland. Through the dead heart… More Beyond the concrete horizon.
“The real war is a psychic one. The real war is on conciousness.” – Michael Tsarion – I am told we can see dead stars. The speed of light makes it possible to see them. Stars that burned out hundreds of thousands, millions of years ago. They are so far away that by the time… More Behind the turd curtain again.
by Joe Pachinko Everything in Trieste was gray, and cold , and closed. I couldn’t get anywhere with anybody. I had been told that Italians didn’t eat until nine o’clock but every night I went out at nine and entered a horrible freezing darkness of no place to eat. I’d ask passersby in Italian, “Where’s… More Barfing to Calabria.
by Joe Pachinko Nine out of ten people stuck in a room with a painting they’ve never seen before will be unable to decide whether they like it or not. They will be incapable of judging its’ value unless they see a price tag. That is unless there is some kind of stamp of approval… More Behind the turd curtain.
[Un racconto in forma di invettiva, ricordando il suo viaggio in Italia dell’anno scorso tra Bergamo, Milano, Trieste, Napoli e Palermo, le enormi differenza fra l’Europa di alcuni decenni fa e quella odierna, le ingiustizie della politica contemporanea che egli dindividua innanzitutto fra le mura domestiche, i possibili venti di guerra con l’Iran. Il tutto… More Notes from the Goat Barn.
Joe Pachinko is an American underground writer living at Camp Climax, just beyond Oakland. What can you say about contemporary literature in USA? I’d like to be able to say that in the last 50 years we’ve seen the rise of the “corporate slut” in literature and the arts but I think they’ve always been… More Interviewing Joe Pachinko.