Here is a photo from the reading. Videos are coming!!!!

Hollywood

Another fucking saturday night in party land. Ugh! Culture shock. Liquor and drugs and irrelevent gringo sheeple chatter. I know the game long and well and it has finally lost all promise of glamor, romance and thrill for me once and for all now at last.

How sad, I think. I do rather long at times for the desperate longing that used to be such an integral part of my being that it’s almost easy to feel lost without it as I suddenly find myself these days.

Longing to be longing! Shit! It’s almost like a sick man missing the disease he has been cured of after a long and painful convelescence. Like missing a festering goiter or a lover who has betrayed you with your friends and other longing dogs on your bed and sold your most cherished posessions for crack money.

Sometimes I really do miss my illusions and my own desperate longing to just believe in the Big Lie.

Even as I write these words I am watching a chubby Mexican-American looking suburban bitch from hell puke her dinner into the gutter outside the Burgundy Room on Cahuenga. Cahuenga. Shit! What a name for a street! It sounds like the sound effects of a fucking car crash.

CAHUENGAAA!!!

I used to like to sit out here on Cahuenga late at night when taking a break from writing to watch the nightly Running of the Drunks before they all got in their cars to smash them into each other. CAHUENGAAA!!

This fat drunken cow goes about her gak-fest beside a parked SUV just as casually and gracelessly as she must have wolfed down her Burger King Whopper before going out to spend more money than a good Mexican laborer like her daddy earns in a week on her pig’s ration of watered-down piss-drink bar whiskey. Disgusting overfed American Chola pig!

Just as I finish writing the last words, I catch a whiff of her bocal excrement from upwind. Just then, another chubby failure with a cunt tipsily approaches me sitting curbside on the bike and asks me for a ride. Hah! Not fucking likely! I tell her I would rather stick my dick in a garbage disposal than continue to look at her goofy mug and she smiles and blinks as if I was just kidding. I am not.
Finally she gets it and waddles across the street toward the Beauty Bar, a place where niggers far more desperate than I am tonight will gladly pay attention to her maddening white bitch prattle in exchange for a boozy blow job in the parking lot. Wonder if they like it when these drunk bitches barf on their Jimmy. Wonder if they got a name for that shit in ghetto-ese.

The Beauty Bar. Fuck! Where do they get a name like that for such a pimply fat butt cattle-fest? Eyes of the beholder, I guess. And isn’t that why god invented booze in the first place? So that fat charmless Armenien secretaries can get knocked up and reproduce more of the same? Where is a Nucular Holocost when ya need one?

I wanna go home now at this stage of the ugly preceedings, but my ass is glued to this motorcycle seat like a rubbernecking commuter watching a 10 car pile-up with hamburger all over the highway. CAHUENGAAA!!! Shit. A grey mist decsends over the whole pathetic mess and I sit here praying for an earthquake of devastating magnitude to justify my being out here on these eye-bleeding streets of Hollywood once again. Waiting for the Apocalypse. Waiting for The Big Cahuenga!!! May it come soon to this pathetic parking lot of lost souls. Good night, Ladies.

Hey guys—

Love Songs To The Dead is officially released and available on Heartworm’s site (HERE). Get your copy now for a Christmas present or whatever the fuck because they are selling fast. Copies are also available in LA at Family on Fairfax Wacko in Los Feliz and Book Soup in WeHo, where Jonathan will be reading from Narcisa and signing both Narcisa and Love Songs tomorrow, Thursday October 8th at 7pm. Get there early for a seat!

ALSO

As of tonight you will be able to buy tickets for the bus tour directly from OTHER MUSIC.

Tickets from OTHER MUSIC sell for $16.
Tickets are wicked (encompassing both the witch and Norwich senses of the word) limited so get them now.

DOUBLE DECKER bus leaves at 8pm sharp from the Washington Square Park Arch on Friday Oct 23rd.

“Row row row your boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.” – Traditional nursery rhyme

OPENS TONIGHT AT GERM BOOKS!
2005 Frankford Ave
Philadelpia

THE HISTORY OF LOVE

Curated by Max G Morton and Alessandra De Benedetti
Performances by Silk Flowers and Her Dead Twin.

The History of Love is a collection of works by 7 romantics whose undirected misanthropy and overflowing passion can essentially be looked at as works of art. Whether it be a painting by Henry Lee Lucas, to which he inscribed on the back, “To a Dear Friend” or a thoughtful Christmas card from the desk of Adolf Hitler written two years before his ’suicide’, all of the pieces in this show in one way or another reflect the humanity in each soul differently through words and media. In a piece by Wesley Eisold it is written “I often stick it in and feel nothing too”. A blood spattered poem by Jonathan Shaw from 1974 reads “So stoned again”, all set in no better place than Germ Books.

Boyd Rice, author of NO and founder of the genre industrial music lives in an underground compound and has no computer, no cell phone, and no girlfriends.

Jonathan Shaw, author of Narcisa and the Mother Theresa of crack whores just announced his engagement. A ceremony loaded with glass pipe filled piñata’s, teen stripers and sober shamen is in the works.

Matt Adis fronts hardcore band Salvation, resides in the suburbs of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, and is currently on workman’s compensation to support his De Quervain’s syndrome.

Wesley Eisold, Philadelphia’s ultimate recluse started Heartworm Press in 2005. Cold Cave’s Love Comes Close will be reissued by Matador records on November 3rd.

Dominick Fernow: Hospital Productions, Prurient, Ash Pool, and Taylor Bow has been joined by Philip Best, Sutcliffe Jugend, Nicole 12, and Wolf Eyes. He recently released Rose Pillar a 180 Page Hardcover Book with 11″ Record on Heartworm Press. Well versed in Black Holes and Time Warps, Fernow also sometimes feels like a Vampire.

Henry Lee Lucas, serial killer died of heart failure in 2001 was a fan of Hank WIlliams. His accomplice, Ottis Toole was identified as the likely murderer of Adam Walsh.

She was starting to look like a bad actress in some cheezy horror movie when the monster jumps out of the closet. A frozen, panic-stricken mask of grimacing raw terror would cover her face like a grotesque Carnaval mask as she sat there compulsively smoking the rock, completely powerless to stop or control her intake anymore. And I would stand looking on helplessly like that scared, confused little kid again as her eyes popped out of her face in terrified mute panic stricken expressions. The last time I’d let her smoke it in my apartment, I remembered how I’d had to struggle to keep from running out screaming into the night myself as I watched her shuttling back and forth between those hellish realms of horror.

She would take a big hit, then move cautiously across the room, slow as an old crippled Tree-Sloth, half-frozen in that awful crack-induced state of induced psychosis. Creeping like a scared little soldier treading across a deadly minefield, clearly anticipating each carefully calculated slow-motion step to be her last.
And in that fucked up altered state of raw terror, she began to really see all sorts of things. Terrible nightmare things! Like a row of eyeballs watching her every move, peering down into her very soul from a little crevice in the ceiling above my bed!

Then there was my colorful little statue of Ogum, represented by a painted plaster figure of São Jorge: Saint George sitting on his shining white steed, spearing a lance into the hissing reptilian Dragon, slaying it. The icon sat in its own little shrine on my bookshelf as a symbol of my own battles against temptation and fear, my own daily victory over drug addiction and the Curse. That image seemed to especially terrify and infuriate Narcisa whenever she was high now. The hellish entities possessing her seemed to have a powerful aversion to my beloved heavenly spirit guide and protector, Ogum.

More and more lately I just told her to beat it when she was tweeking and go smoke that shit somewhere else. That’s just the way it had to be. And now she was quickly running out of ‘safe’ places to smoke it anymore.
God help her.

Copyright Jonathan Shaw 2009.