Tag Archives: Money

A Tiny Voice

Yes, of course,
we, too, care about
a neglected rose struggling to survive
among the scattered bricks
of a crumbling house,
but we’ve already done
all we can.
Remember  
a child has a tiny voice
and no money –
hardly the sturdy platform
on which to make demands.
Yet here she stands
with her small voice,
empty pockets, and
accusing eyes,
while we continue to tell her
to trust the spider
who swears
he wouldn’t hurt a fly.

Luvgood Carp, Editor in Chief

Grease-Dipped Benjamins

Being an important, wealthy, and virile businessman, I frequently find myself in Washington, DC. I bring my banker, Titmouse Beak, and my lawyer, Treacherous Gulp, because I need to accomplish a lot in a short period of time. I also bring suitcases full of grease-dipped Benjamins. You can’t open doors on Capitol Hill without those. I’m joking, of course. No one uses cash anymore; all those transactions are done electronically, but you get my point.

Tuesday morning we were walking by Union Station towards the Capitol. You could smell fried legislative sausage everywhere. Treacherous, Tit, and I are prosperous middle-aged men, so we love watching people fight. We’ll pay fat stacks to see professionals brutalize each other and then bet larger sums on who will limp away and who will go to the hospital. It’s wildly entertaining, and as luck would have it an amateur fight broke out in front of us.

Two men of indeterminate age started screaming at each other. One man was short and worn out. All his worldly possessions were on a blanket next to him. It was a small pile. Another man, tall and emaciated with all his possessions on his back, appeared to have stepped on the blanket. It was difficult to assess if this was an intentional provocation or accidental. Both men were jittery and having trouble standing upright. Nonetheless, the fight was on, and we started placing our bets.

The tall skinny guy should have had an advantage, but he couldn’t throw a punch. He tried slapping the short guy but lost his balance and tumbled to the ground. The short guy went to kick him, but he too lost his balance and collapsed on his tiny pile of possessions. These fighters had no physical stamina, and neither tried to get back up. Needless to say, the fight was disappointing and hilarious, but it reminded me of how, in Washington, DC, you get what you pay for.

Knowgood Carp, Owner of all the Hotels on Block Island and Some in Connecticut

Fortunately, the Internet Has Everything You Need

People always say to me Hey, Luvgood, you’re one cool dude. How can I be as cool as you? So I tell them: create a blog. And they respond Whoa, now. Shouldn’t I learn to walk before I try to run? And they have a valid point. Creating a blog isn’t easy.  It takes hours. 

Fortunately, the internet has everything you need.  Several vendors will happily provide you with dozens of templates for a fee.  It’s like the Bible says:  if you have a dream and the money to pay for it, the internet will provide. 

Once you’ve selected the best template you can afford, you need to choose a jarring background hue to emphasize a scalding letter color.  Whenever WordPress allows it, I go for angry red letters on a white background. The red represents the rage that can be found everywhere these days. 

All that’s left is choosing the font and font size.  Font is essential.  It says everything about your blog’s personality.  Are you old fashioned like The New York Times?  Choose Plantagenet Cherokee.  Are you a prig like The New Republic?  Choose Garamond.  Are you a pompous snob like the New Yorker?  Choose Franklin Gothic Book.  If you’re cool and approachable, choose the font I use. It’s the one mandated by WordPress. That just leaves font size, and here it really doesn’t matter what you pick, because no one reads blogs.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief    

A Tiny Voice

Yes, of course,
we, too, care about
a neglected rose struggling to survive
among the scattered bricks
of a crumbling house,
but we've already done
all we can.

Remember
a child has a tiny voice
and no money -
hardly the sturdy platform
on which to make demands.
Yet here she stands
with her small voice,
empty pockets, and 
accusing eyes,
while we continue to tell her
to trust the spider
who swears
he wouldn't hurt a fly.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Hey, Dude, That SurrenderWatch Looks Awesome

In celebration of Unity & Justice Month (the only month where we come together and pretend to honor Unity and Justice), Mega has released its SurrenderWatch (patent pending). Sweet!

Does it tell the time? Of course it does, you moron. But it also tracks how much exercise you get. And in this month only, the more you exercise the faster you close the Unity & Justice Ring (trademark pending).

Oh, hey, this is wonderful! By simply wearing a SurrenderWatch, I will get healthier and in return for my patronage Mega will donate money to worthy causes that promote Unity and Justice, which are not vague platitudes at all!

Hold on, my friend. Who said anything about money? Let’s not sully all these puppy-dog feelings by bringing up money. No one has to pay anything (except you to buy a SurrenderWatch) to support Unity and Justice.

All you need to do is complete the exercise ring within the prescribed time every day. So get off the couch, walk to the kitchen, and microwave some pizza bagel bites. Simply by living healthier, you will promote Unity and Justice – and provide Mega with some useful biometrics, which it will sell for a massive profit.

So what are you waiting for? Do you hate Unity and Justice?

Titmouse Beak, CEO of Pungent Sound Technical College of Technology and Owner of Pungent Sound’s Only SurrenderWatch Store

The Dray Horse

He gave the last full measure of devotion
without receiving recognition or promotion.
Living on the muted end of a video call
a dray horse working quietly in his stall
until found back turned to a virtual door,
glued to his chair, feet fixed to the floor,
staring searchingly into the electric blue
as if it could tell him what is true.
A conch squeezed tightly in his shell
bothering no one until he started to smell.

His cramped cubicle was in the last row.
It was a long way away so I would not go.
Instead I sent work to him by email
which he would respond to without fail
but then there were unusual delays.
To be fair, he'd been dead for two days
staring into the vast electric blue
as his work lined up in a virtual queue.

Now the accountants have correctly said
he shouldn't be paid for the days he was dead.
So I hope his family won't give me flak
when I call to get that money back.

Accountants - they're not virtual or new. 
That's what I see inside the electric blue.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Blood Diamonds

   When it comes to comprehending numbers,
   don't listen to the poets -
   if they understood basic math,
   they wouldn't be poets.
   Listen to the accountants, instead.

   A poet will sing how 
   13 is an unlucky number
   (no feat of the imagination there).
   She may even pull out her license
   and irrationally rhyme 
   how some numbers are unethical.

   As if ethics applies to math and money.

   An accountant will cogently observe
   that no matter what 13 may be
   it is not a big number.
   17 is bigger - though still not big.
   27, 32, 50, and 59 are big
   but no bigger than a modest PR problem.

   13 does not make a synagogue a concentration camp.

   Especially when 13 is actually 12
   because the killer was 1.

   The accountant will clarify 
   that 12 is much smaller than
   billions.

   The poet will protest:
   billions is the sound of 
   outdoor concerts becoming killing fields
   and classrooms becoming slaughterhouses.
   Poets call those children and concertgoers
   blood diamonds.

   An accountant now concerned about the bottom line
   will counter that "blood diamonds" is
   a misleading and malicious metaphor
   manufactured by malcontent poets
   to cynically incite the sympathies of simpletons.

   There hasn't been a market for blood diamonds in years.

   So children and concertgoers are not blood diamonds.
   They aren't even innocent bystanders - 
   because they were terrified,
   when the shooting started,
   and tried to run away.

   If you must name them,
   the accountant will conclude that 
   the children and concertgoers were
   coal ash or feathers
   or other unavoidable byproducts
   of businesses worth billions.

   What, the accountant would like to know,
   is a poem worth?

   Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

   First published in The Broadkill Review

Martin Amis and the Art of Self Abuse

How do you create a story about a truly despicable person and make him sympathetic? Martin Amis in Money has a simple answer. You don’t. Because that’s a fool’s errand, and Mr. Amis is no fool. However, it also means the reader is not going to like John Self, the narrator and protagonist (we guess), or pretty much anyone else in the book. Self is an alcoholic, who finds pleasure in the simple things: sex, drugs, and money. And he is abusive with all of them. He is abusive with women. In fact, there is nothing and no one he does not abuse – including himself (our favorite kind of abuse). Despite this, he frequently and somewhat engagingly speaks directly to the reader asking for sympathy. “I want sympathy, even though I find it so very hard to behave sympathetically.”

Money ostensibly is about John Self, but it is really about money and all the reprehensible things people do to get money and (even more so) once they have money. So the title is no misdirection. The story, which was written (and is set) in the early 1980s, successfully captures that decade’s Zeitgeist. “The streets are full of movement but hardly anybody goes where they go through thought or choice, free of money motive.”

Self (think self-absorbed or self-indulgent or self-destructive or self-pitying or self-ish or your-self) has made a lot of money directing fast food commercials in London. But now he has an opportunity to direct his first movie and make piles more. As a result he spends much of his time shuttling between London and New York – drunk and failing miserably to manage his personal and professional lives. Though he craves money, he doesn’t actually understand money – other than how to spend it.

Everything about Self is tacky and sticky. He is an old stool in the back corner of a truck stop strip club. And because he is drunk or hungover nearly all the time, he has no clue what is happening around him. He continually gets into ludicrous situations that are quite funny at times. Self (occasionally) is also comically self-aware. “It puts you at a big disadvantage with the ladies, being drunk all the time.” But the humor particularly sizzle when Mr. Amis skewers movie stars and the movie-making business. At other times, however, the humor is dated – as it frequently comes at the expense of a self-destructive alcoholic when he is blindingly drunk.

One unexpected pleasure is Martin Amis appears as a character (because it is impossible for a novel to be post-modern unless the author is a character). Martin Amis (the character) tries to assist Self with the movie’s script, but this conceit allows Martin Amis (the writer) to make witty observations about writing, such as an “author is not free of sadistic impulses.” Based upon Mr. Amis’ abuse of Self (self-abuse?), truer words are not found in this novel.

The story is at its satirical best when Mr. Amis is mocking the pretensions of actors and other movie people. However, the novel lags about two-thirds of the way through and then limps to its conclusion. And just as with life outside books, it gets tiresome watching an unlikeable, self-destructive person continuously self-destruct.

Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor