I had a somewhat Bukowskian experience of my own recently, when I arrived at work just after a woman had been beaten, raped, and thrown from a fifth-story window at the Regent Hotel, just across the alley from my office. I didn’t hear the thud, but I did arrive in time to see the many various vehicles with the flashing, multi-coloured lights, and to listen to her cousin wailing in grief for three-quarters of an hour before Victims’ Services calmed her down.
And so, with that intro, welcome to our Bukowskian interlude:
Who doesn’t love Weird Al Yankovic? And who doesn’t love Bob Dylan videos? And who doesn’t love palindromes? Put them all together and you get something like this:
No, I’m serious: Get me Michael Lewis‘ phone number!
If you ask me (and I don’t believe you did, but you might and I’m servicey like that, so here’s your answer in advance) not enough writers are the object of gratuitous sexual objectification, and here I speak, of course, not only of myself but of others as well.
Harold Bloom, for instance.
But one man, it seems, has achieved this dream, and it couldn’t have happened to a nicer sci-fi-er: Ray Bradbury is the subject of this lusty, Silvermanesque ditty, unambiguously entitled “Fuck Me, Ray Bradbury.”
And the lyrics of the tune every high school book club is going to want to perform at the Assembly:
Steve called me up and said: “Wanna hang out tonight?”
We could see an indie film or just grab a bite
I said: “Oh, Steve, YOU’RE cute, but a MOVIE’S not what I need. No offense, BUT I’d rather stay home and read.”
F-ck Me, Ray Bradbury
The greatest Sci-Fi writer in history
Oh F-ck Me, Ray Bradbury
Since I was twelve I’ve been your number one fan
“Kiss me, you ILLUSTRATED MAN.”
I’ll feed you grapes and Dandelion Wine
And we’ll read a little Fahrenheit 69
You’re a Prolific Author, Ray Bradbury
Come on baby, I’m down on one knee
I carved our names on a Halloween tree
You write about earthlings going to Mars
And I write about blowin you in my car
You won an Emmy AWARD for the screen play adaptation of Halloween Tree
Heather Haley says SIGN UP NOW, BITCHES! or actually something much more poetical-like
Who: Us and the Siren of Howe Sound, Heather Haley
What: A night of multimedia delights celebrating the recent publication of Three Blocks West of Wonderland.
When: Monday, August 16, from 7pm-9pm
Where: The Shebeen, behind the Irish Heather, 212 Carrall Street
As always, $20 buys you dinner and a drink and some of the finest literary company this city has to offer. No RSVP is required, but it’s appreciated so we have a rough idea of whether we need to reserve the snug or to lay in crowd control! Click here to RSVP on Facebook.
Join us as we celebrate the release of Heather Haley’s latest book of poetry, Three Blocks West of Wonderland. Heather is both the digital AND actual troubadour of the West Coast, from Bowen Island to Venice Beach, and for the first time she’ll be bringing her multimedia performance experience to the Shebeen Club. There will be poetry. There will be prose. There will be beauty. There may be song. And there WILL be videopoems, a dynamic new genre that seems to have sprung fully formed from the forehead of the Siren of Howe Sound herself.
We’re very proud to help celebrate a pivotal local literatus’s latest launch! And that’s my allotment of “L’s” for the week right there.
Poet, author, musician and media artist Heather Haley pushes boundaries by creatively integrating disciplines, genres and media. Published in numerous journals and anthologies including Geist and The Verse Map of Vancouver, her poetry collections Sideways (Anvil Press) and Three Blocks West of Wonderland (Ekstasis Editions) have been described as “supple and unusual,” “brawny and uncompromising.”
The Shebeen Club 