Saturday morning I woke up in a panic. My clock which was set to Los Angeles time began to buzz mosquito-like and irritating in my ear. No worries, I thought, it’s only 7 am. Nope. No it wasn’t. It was 10 am and a eager bright eyed and bushy-tailed ambitious youngster like myself should have probably arrived to the Javits Center at 9am when the whole shindig started, but I’d already fucked that up, so I closed my eyes for a few more moments.

Feeling disheveled and anxious after about 2 minutes I shook off the sleep that was fogging up my brain and began to collect my belongings. My phone rang and Joseph Mattson was on the other end of the line. He said he’d be arriving around noon and that I should feel free to take my time, as everyone was severely hungover from the night before. I silently thanked the gods for my choice of tonic water and the one-upsmanship that it afforded me against all others that would be present today.

As I was already dressed and ready to go, I figured I’d walk to the West Side. Well that didn’t happen either. I arrived at the corner of 13th and 5th Avenue before finally realizing that I’d embarked on a ridiculously long journey. I caved and flung my thumb out before the next available taxi. Well this taxi driver was none too happy at the fact that I was paying with a credit card (for the record: FIRST time I’ve ever done that) but I didn’t care. I tipped him in cash. Meanwhile, back in my pocket, my phone buzzed again. Eli, the editor of McSweeney’s had texted me to wish me a good day and remind me to go see the kind folks at Two Dollar Radio, as I had asked him earlier if he would be attending and/or would like to enjoy a delicious fruity beverage with me.

Thankful for the reminder, I walked into the Center and headed over to the Two Dollar Radio booth in Consortium’s general area. There I met Eliza Wood, who I spoke with for a few minutes about the art of being a small publisher and making a living. It really is an art, one that I  couldn’t tell you about at this particular point in time but maybe in a few months if you ask me I’ll have a better idea. Sure enough, Eli of McSweeney’s approached as we were talking and gave the old See? I told you so at me before pulling me away to show me a book he thought I would really enjoy.

“It’s a tattoo book” he said.

“Oh yeh great. Thanks for the wide berth in my pigeon hole…”

“Trust me you’ll dig it.” So after very little cajoling I followed him through the uncharted territories of the foreign book market. We reached a small Italian publisher. The book, which we found after much sign language paired with my juvenile understanding of the Italian language, featured several naked stick figures with untattooed bodies and a marker. Well we laughed for a few seconds at a crude drawing of testicles and then parted ways.

I found my way back to Consortium and as I passed by the Feral House booth a hand reached out and grabbed me. This hand was connected to the body of Adam Parfrey.

“So glad to see you again. We were looking for you yesterday.” He said to me. Frankly I was surprised, but I graciously asked him why he was so interested in finding me and he told me of many vague opportunities for a collaboration of sorts on some project that has not yet been decided. I will keep you posted on that…

I spoke with Adam and his wife Jodi for some time about their latest book, which is an autobiographical account of life in a cult by one of the founding members of The Process Church of The Final Judgement. The book is called Love Sex Fear Death and was written by Timothy Wyllie. Unfortunately the conversation was a bit heavy and confusing for me because I was not able to actually READ the book and fully understand it until yesterday when I flew back to LA. I recommend to everyone. It’s fucking fascinating.

At this juncture I was approached from behind again (pattern here?) by my obligatory boyfriend for the weekend, Joseph Mattson and I excused myself from the conversation. Joseph introduced me to the fine people at Akashic, whom I’d been really excited to meet because they are Lydia Lunch’s publisher and as you all know, she wrote the foreword to Narcisa. I gave them the brief rundown of Narcisa and then retreated, knowing that being a zealot of anything at these events is really really fucking annoying. Somewhere in this time slot I acquired enough poppy to harvest an opium field and a water pistol. Now there are many things you can do with a water pistol. Some more untoward then others. Throughout the day this water pistol would be filled with substances of varying levels of inappropriateness and dutifully squirted at passersby, a girl in pink cowboy boots and several small children.

After sitting down with the marketing director at Tin House for a little while I visited Ron Turner, my adopted Uncle for the weekend and his family. We went on back and forth for a few minutes bantering until Ron made the observation that there is in fact a motorcycle boot lodged up my ass, that boot invariably belonging to Jonathan Shaw. Yeah yeah, I laughed, all the while gazing at the Scientologists and wondering how the fuck I could infiltrate their barracks and escape with a wealth of free propaganda without getting recruited or having a chip implanted under my fingernail. This would become one of my many goals of the weekend.

The day soon came to an end so I made the quick rounds to everyone I had seen, wished them a good night and that I hoped I would see them the following morning if the Apocalypse didn’t occur two years early.

My evening consisted of leering at people with Robert Fila from Feral House, more pistol squirting, a slice of pizza from Pomodoro, stopping by Akashic’s party at Housing Works in Soho, walking downtown, crosstown, back across town until I eventually found myself locked in the bathroom of the apartment on 7th and A telling Jonathan this same story on the telephone. I dreamt with angels that night, wrapped in my new favorite white fuzzy blanket which was appropriately named Snowflake by my Aunt Bernadette.

to be continued

On my Friday morning arrival at the Book Expo America, I was immediately sucked into a wave of chipper-looking suits and ties. I was tired, overwhelmed and nervous. I waited at a coffee stand on the fringe of the white collar cyclone, for Joseph Mattson, a writer from LA who said he had an extra badge for me. When he approached me, I was relieved to see another person who looked like something other than a fat cow in a shiny suit and a bag full of self-indulgent press materials. He was none of these things. In fact, he whisked me away from my little corner, directed me to the bar on the upper level of the convention center, pointed to my wallet, took my cash and ordered himself a whiskey. Here I consumed my first tonic water of the weekend.

After talking for a minute about this and that, he handed me my entry badge, an addendum of all the parties I would be expected to attend, and explained to me in great detail the conditions under which I would be allowed to keep the badge all weekend (that would, in a nutshell, be A: when asked what I was doing at The Book Expo, I was to say that I was Joseph Mattson’s girlfriend and B: That Book Soup is the best bookstore in the world and I live and die by them.) He then left me to my own devices as I whimpered silently at the prospect of being alone in the middle of this horrible mess. In this moment, I solidified my shameless tactic of the weekend, the old air of helplessness. As he turned to walk away, he heard my soft lamb-like coos and suggested that maybe I stick with him for a while and he would show me around. Oh yes! Great idea thought I. And so we ventured to the main floor of the BEA.

I was introduced to a slew of publishers, most operating their booths in a section devoted to clients of their distributor, Consortium. After hanging around there for a short amount of time I felt my knees were strong enough to carry me on my own and I set off to find Ron Turner of Last Gasp Books, who I’d been corresponding with back in LA regarding my arrival in New York and the prospect of having him adopt me for the weekend. I slowly picked my way through the growing crowd, referring to my map as a guide to where I would eventually find Ron Turner, sandwiched comfortably between a shrine to L. Ron Hubbard and a booth devoted to homosexual romance novels. I approached Ron and was greeted by a big welcoming hug, like a grandfather would hug you. I immediately felt at home here. I told him of my reasons for being there: my publishing company SugarHiccup, pitching Narcisa, a vacation, I just got dumped by my rich boyfriend, I’m having a nervous breakdown, I drank too much coffee etc. He sighed and asked me to write a list of all the people he was about to tell me to go see, one of them being a therapist. I thanked him, took my list and set off to find said people that I was supposed to go and talk to, but not before I caught a glimpse of the hawk-like Scientologists licking their chops at me, waiting to pounce. I lifted my chin and walked away with a quick Fuck you look.

The day went by quite fast and before I knew it I had 23 minutes left to do all the things I needed to do. I spent 17 of those minutes asking myself again what exactly I needed to do, 3 minutes waiting in line to pee and the last 3 minutes wandering lost in a long row of books about farms before I threw in the towel and made my way outside. I walked to the Lower East Side which took a good hour, had a power nap, put on a sprightly little dress and was right back out the door, back to the West Side to DAP’s party at the Artbook store. Outside, of course, duh, how could I not have known, I ran into Tony Smyrski from Heartworm who said my hair looked nice. We went back and forth a little awkwardly for a minute until he finally just walked away. I gotta work on that relationship probably. Love those guys.

Joseph Mattson approached me from behind, and together we walked into the sticky clusterfuck of a party. I found Ron Turner and he introduced me to the editor of McSweeney’s, informing him that I would soon buy out his company. He was fine with that. Ron ordered me to fetch him a glass of wine and so I did. One red, one white. I personally enjoyed my 2nd and 3rd tonic water of the weekend. It was only Friday and I was taking it easy.

Tomorrow I will tell you all about Saturday (it gets better) if my plane does not get “lost” en route to LAX. Right now I have to catch a cab to JFK. XOXOXO Alessandra.

Hi guys,

I just want to apologize for the recent cessation of blogging. I am at the Book Expo of America in NYC right now and have not had a second till now to sit down in front of this machine. See you tomorrow with a fresh blog. We love you all!

Alessandra

I am not a fan of Thanksgiving. Never have been.
While I’m lucky enough to be thankful for many things on any given day of the year, Thanksgiving is one day I’ve actually found difficult to be thankful for anything on.
Everything is closed. Everyone is drunk. Football. Food. Marathons of Intervention. It’s like a gathering of pigs.
Which is fine, some people like that.
I don’t and I have my theories as to why. Perhaps it’s the rampant patriotism founded on a janky set of principles, where raping and pillaging and infecting weird Anglo saxan diseases on the innocent is
okay as long as you take a moment to be “thankful” for the corn you stole out of that baby’s mouth.
Maybe it’s because I went to the petting zoo when I was three and they told me not to look a turkey in the eye. Well I looked it in the eye.
And then it attacked me, leaving me with 7 stitches in my face.
It’s not the “why” though. It’s dealing with the now that matters.
And so,  I’m here on behalf of Scabvendor and Jonathan Shaw to wish you a happy Thanksgiving if you’re feeling shitty today.
If you don’t understand this bizarre feeding frenzy tradition either, you’re not alone.
There is something to be thankful for. Understanding.
Jonathan taught me one good thing, to make any annoying consumer holiday seem worthwhile, which I will share with you today.
It’s called a gallon Ziploc freezer bag. It is to be kept in your back pocket throughout Thanksgiving day and slowly filled with cranberry sauce, apple pie, turkey, mashed potatos and anything else you can get your hands until you have yourself a week’s worth of meals in the trunk of your car. Cooked for hours and hours by friends and family and gladly taken home and frozen by you.
If that is not something to be thankful for, I don’t know what is.
So with that, I will leave you, with the gifts of understanding and guaranteed free food.
Enjoy your day, kids.

- Alessandra DeBenedetti

An email exchange and the afterthoughts…

It’s so good to be back in Rio and I just wanted to check in let everyone know that- no, sorry- we haven’t disappeared. I’m sitting here in Gloria sort of melting but enjoying the heat because it’s winter here and heat, therefore, is a blessing.

I’m watching airplanes fly over the Guanabara Bay out of Santos Dumont and wondering how I got so lucky to be here, again, in my favorite city on Earth. No matter how hot, no matter how many mosquitos are out for my gringo flesh, this view of the opposite side of the moon from the opposite side of the equator beats the view of downtown Los Angeles any day.

Speaking of the opposite side of the equator. Flushing the toilet has at once become my new favorite activity. Why? Yes, because I am weird, but more because the water swirls in the opposite direction and that is fucking COOL! Hello.

So so so I’m here to tell you not only that but to please stay tuned for new blogs, pictures and detailed accounts of adventures here in Cidade De Deus.

The tracer bullets are flying, the sun is out, the beach is warm, Narcisa is beautiful and capitivating as she always is, so now I must go.

It’s time for lunch.

Beijos beijos beijos,

Alessandra

NOTIFICAÇÃO: Os eventos relatados neste site são contos de ficção registrados na Biblioteca Nacional com todos os direitos autorais revertidos os autors Jonathan Shaw e Alessandra DeBenedetti. Os personagens mencionados são inteiramente fictícios. Certos eventos, personagens, lugares e relatos, foram baseados em fatos reais, porém qualquer semelhança a qualquer pessoa viva ou morta se trata de pura coincidência. As várias fotografias apresentadas se encontram com o rosto distorcido para preservar o anonimato das modelos que representam personagens fictícios.

So, now the time has come…  Jonathan has finally begun a whole new marathon rewrite of “Narcisa – Our Lady of Ashes“.

This time he’s working hand in hand with a seasoned book editor for a major literary agency – a real step up from a few weeks proof-reading the first edition’s funky first draft text with me, sitting in coffee houses and all-nite greasy-spoons around Silverlake, Echo Park and Hollyweird.

Our original editing system was always pretty haphazard and unconventional, to say the least….

But now…..

with daily blog posts, and this whole website shit up and running, and Jonathan long gone, back home in Brazil with his crazy crackhead, Narcisa, it’s all swiftly plummeted south to the next level of wierdness, coming together, a day at a time, mostly through tidbits and scraps of random emails, peppered with numbered headings, sometimes in strange heiroglyphic text but ALWAYS broken off in the middle by that familiar tagline.

“Sent Via Blackberry T-Mobile”.

That’s right kids, he now writes and edits all of his blog entries on a friggin’ blackberry.

BUT. WAIT.

The jig doesn’t stop there…

This is a 360 some odd page novel he’s re-working down there.

And, get this: Jonathan has proceeded to begin the whole fucking rewrite on his little pocket sized Crackberry too!!

RE-WRITE. AS IN, he’s re-writing… a book. On a Blackberry. I’m not joking. Or laughing. Well maybe a little.

Sitting on a motorcycle in the middle of the jungle, dodging automatic weapon fire up in some shanty town drug war favela, sitting on some rodent-infested rock by the beach or whatever whorehouse he’s sitting (or laying up) in right now…

Whatever the fuck he does that no one will ever really know…

Typing. On the Blackberry.

The following recent email exchange between us should give you some idea where my head’s been at today…

And as a pre-req, please envision the grimace on his Hollywood-bound assistant’s (that would be yours truly) pretty little face while I sit at my desk, running the whole official shit show from my office at the Crow’s nest overlooking the glittering lights of Babylon and the smog of the apocalypse.

I wrote this email to Jonathan a full FIVE times before sending it, searching for the right words to express my absolute outrage at his working methods…

At first it was a very angry email, I chastised him mercilessly for being an inconsiderate, unprincipaled caveman of an ignorant old Ludite prick with no decent sense of respect for modern communication systems or basic technology. But then I realized… how the fuck could anybody really get pissed off at such a spectacular display of savage insanity? Some might even call it genius…. I call it atavistic genius (something like a cross between Asberger’s and Bukowski logic).

- Alessandra

Here goes:

From: SAILOR

Subject: Blackberry endorsements and Lasek surgery

Date: June 13, 2008 4:14:52 PM PDT

To: JS

Captain-

Has that bitch got you smoking crack now? WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?!!   Shit’s cut off, nothing’s in the right order, I cant even believe you’re just merrily going about your business down there in the jungles of Hell, attempting a MAJOR rewrite on a 360 page book from your fucking Blackberry… as if that is something even remotely acceptable or normal.

Only you, you pirate-minded mentally insane psychopathic whore-fucking douchebag sniveling demented freak.

I have to wonder… How did I get so graced by the hand of such a technologically impaired innovator?

I fucking love you.

This will definitely go down in literary history…

Take the following, for example…

“So Jonathan, how did you become blind?”

” Well I was writing this novel on my blackberry and…”

From: JS

Subject: Re: Blackberry endorsements and Lasek surgery

Date: June 13, 2008 7:28:51 PM PDT

To: SAILOR

Little Sailor. You’re lucky I like you for being so hilariously… Retarded.

This aint exactly fuckin’ Starbucks here, darlin’!

I know you mean well, ya little suburban white trash SUV-driving, attorney-blowing hosebag amateur hooker… but it’s not like ya can just whip out the old laptop and start getting all artsy-fartsy here in the fucking vermin-infested crack ghettos of Rio, ya know…

I love you too. You are truly my other wacko muse, ya sniveling little cunt!!!

Btw, go ahead and put that ‘how’d you go blind?’ question into that big collective interview you’re supposedly preparing for me, whenever the time comes…

By the time you get it all together with all yer big shot Bel-air celebrity ass-sucking pals, maybe I’ll be deaf and dumb too.

And that could be a real fucking blessing, the way things are going loonie-toons around here lately, believe me!

Gotta go go go go goooo!!!

“Hasta la vitoria, siempre!”

Xx js

Sent Via Blackberry T-Mobile

WHAT A COMPLICIT BOND WE HAVE. Goodnight boys and girls.