Blurry and Disconnected: Tales of Sink-or-Swim Nihilism


Blurry and Disconnected disregards politically correct notions as it weaves wildly provocative, darkly humorous, and entertaining tales full of fancy talk and big words. The book's five short stories and one novella feature a one-armed ice cream man, clueless underground celebrities, an avant-garde sax player, and other intriguing characters. (The 2006 edition includes substantially more content than the previous edition.)
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2006 Paperback Good Connecting readers with great books since 1972. Used books may not include companion materials, some shelf wear, may contain highlighting/notes, may not ... include cd-rom or access codes. Customer service is our top priority! Read more Show Less

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Blurry and Disconnected disregards politically correct notions as it weaves wildly provocative, darkly humorous, and entertaining tales full of fancy talk and big words. The book's five short stories and one novella feature a one-armed ice cream man, clueless underground celebrities, an avant-garde sax player, and other intriguing characters. (The 2006 edition includes substantially more content than the previous edition.)
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Editorial Reviews

Ben Jonjak
"an alternative novel that takes chances most mainstream publications would never dream of . . . this is the book to pick up."
Midwest Book Review
Donna "Diamond" Denn
"(Dave Riley's) imagination is just a bit north of normal . . . irreverent and entertaining, and definitely an author to watch."
The Compulsive Reader
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780977735303
  • Publisher: Contortmedia
  • Publication date: 2/28/2006
  • Pages: 196
  • Product dimensions: 6.00 (w) x 9.00 (h) x 0.45 (d)

Read an Excerpt

UP YOUR ASS Candice Lindridge phoned me the other night. When she's not busy charging fwa-fwa club-hopping clothes to her daddy's account, or sympathetically nodding as she dispenses quarters to unwashed bums without ambition who sleep in cardboard boxes and prattle on about how they used to be rich or whatever, she edits - and presumes to delegate responsibility for - this magazine. I was discussing quantum physics with my cat, Wiener, and about to pop the cap off my fifth bottle of Guinness, when the phone rang. Here's a portion of our conversation: Candice: Are you gonna review the new Amish Sex CD?
Me: laughter
Candice: Not even a fleeting mention in your column?
Me: Nope.
Candice: Why not?
Me: Because they suck mightily.
Candice: Oh. We could have gone on all night, and the bottom line would still be that Amish Sex is the stupidest band in the world since Sigue Sigue Sputnik (remember those pompous hacks?). And Amish Sex fans are even more dull-witted than Nine Inch Nails fans - no small feat. I've obviously changed my mind about mentioning Amish Sex in this column. Someone should ignore the shameless hype and call their bluff. They're not a vital cultural phenomenon. They're a gaggle of irritating dickweeds with no talent. The hoopla that surrounds the band overshadows their music, which is terrible anyway. It's a pretty sure bet that your average tone-deaf loser who sports an Amish Sex tattoo hasn't even heard the debut CD Scratch Yer Own Self. Amish Sex remind me of U2 and the stadium-rock excesses of their Zoo TV tour. At least the hapless greenmen were (or at least pretended to be) sincere. On the other hand, Amish Sex, with media Svengali and head whiner Reginald Futz at the helm, flaunt their blatantly whorish and unnerving ability to manipulate the media - and ultimately their fans - as if admission was tantamount to acquittal. I'll just bet that this Futz guy walks into a lot of walls, what with his head being up his ass. Futz was the chief posing caterwauler and bassist for The Shakin' Jawehs, a thoroughly shitty "Roots Rock band with modern sensibilities", or so that's how they described themselves. Thankfully they broke up a year ago. The Shakin' Jawehs were notorious for their embarrassing ineptitude while performing. They couldn't play their instruments worth a damn, and their attempts at theatrics were unbelievably feeble. One of the band's signature pastiches had Futz and bandmates Dirk Splendor and Izzy Corona grinning like pigs while wearing oversized foam rubber Stetsons for undeserved encores that were planned in advance. Such lame frat boy hijinks usually attract major label attention, but for some reason such sophomoric shenanigans didn't work for The Shakin' Jawehs. To add to their headache, the trio was banned from all of the clubs in their hometown of New York City, because they were grossly incompetent musicians even by NYC standards. During this golden era, Futz met some schlub named Marvin Dittle at a job where they both tended spider monkeys that were commercially bred for research. They discovered that they shared the same aspirations toward megastardom, and vowed to become an elite duo. Their partnership was aborted when Dittle was fired for stealing monkey urine, and Futz didn't see him for several months. Then Dittle appeared at the condemned loft where what was to be the last Shakin' Jawehs gig was held. He reminded Futz of their pact, Futz admitted dissatisfaction with his band. He felt that neither Splendor nor Corona was aggressive enough to meet his standard for success. Dittle suggested to Futz that they jam with a couple of Dittle's like-minded friends. Futz agreed. The next day, Futz gave the other two Shakin' Jawehs their walking papers, shaved his pompadour in favor of a bald pate, started a goatee, and donned his now omnipresent red fez and black Ray-Bans. Then he set out to clinch a major label deal - none of that penny-ante Indie crap for him and Dittle. (Mind you, this is before the band even existed.) The way Futz figured, his new band would continuously churn out videos and other merchandise, thus making him a shit-ton of money, and enabling him to frequently get his dick sucked, and engage in the use of stylish recreational drugs. The demise of an innovative cultural force like The Shakin' Jawehs left Splendor broken and embittered. He now works behind the counter in a DVD rental store. Corona has recently resurfaced as the guitarist for The Nihilistic Brats, and has reportedly developed a full-blown glue-huffing habit. Futz jammed with Dittle's friends, and they all formed Amish Sex. (The names of the other two members escape me. No matter - Futz regularly refers to them as "the other guys" in interviews.) They were all terrible musicians, and even worse songwriters. But their initial media blitz was admittedly spectacular, even clever. The recently formed band performed their only song, "Hamburger King" (Big Boy fucked Dolly and Dolly blew Nugget / Oh me oh my / Where's the beef?), on the back of a rented flatbed truck that had been parked right smack in the front of the Chrysler Building in Manhattan. A banner that was emblazoned their cartoon mascot, Chauncy, hung behind them. (Chauncy is a leering, winking Amish guy with a Pep-Boy-proportioned head and his pants down around his ankles to display an enormous erect wally.) The lackey who drove the truck had purposefully stripped the gears when he had parked. After "Hamburger King" collapsed into aural chaos, the band and their crew made a hasty getaway and left the immobile truck behind. Traffic in front of the well-known building came to a standstill. The band was fined a mere seventy-five dollars by a judge of questionable integrity. After court, a limo whisked them to the offices of Quail Bait Recordings, where they put their John Hancocks on a contract. The godawful racket that these boneheads make has always taken a back seat to such stunts. Drooling idiots everywhere are waiting with bated breath for up-to-the-minute coverage of the band's antics, not for any new output of music. Fans would rather know the intimate details of Futz's sex life than listen to the CD. (At every opportunity, Futz broadcasts that he's bisexual. Who gives a dry hump?). Most people are allowing themselves to be sucked in by the band's usually lukewarm exploits and merchandising, while ignoring the fact that their music reeks. Official Amish Sex Prozac sold phenomenally well until the FDA banned its sale. Ditto Amish Sex buttplugs, except for the FDA part. Meanwhile, sales of Scratch Yer Own Self are just strong enough to merit a gratuitous rank at the bottom of the major charts. What gives?
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Table of Contents

Make Mine a Chocolate Eclair
King of the Egyptian Cobra Nation
Makes Boys Manly Men
Skippy's Botched Karma
Bizarre and Majestic
Chinese Finger Puzzle
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