Some titles are only understood after listening…
As always, all of our podcasts are on iTunes. Simply search “Drunken Literates” and put our idiocy on your mobile device!
Episode 6:
Episode 5:
What creative endeavor can part you from your pocketbook?
As always, all of our podcasts are on iTunes. Simply search “Drunken Literates” and put our idiocy on your mobile device!
The long awaited EPISODE 5?!?
Yes, full with an interrobang.
We will be doing a podcast on Kickstarter campaigns and the way self-financed authors and publishers navigate the world these days.
Give our video a looksee:
Or donate money to us so we can continue to bring your irreverent idiocy— with a bit more consumption added to the mix!
Episode 4:
We delve into the worst fiction has to offer, often finding ourselves stumbling over genre fiction and the cliches they offer up. We interview Sue Fondrie, winner of the Worst Sentence of 2011 by the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest… AND we bring in our “resident expert” Jonathan Ludwig to help facilitate the literary death match! What is our literary death match? Each host finds 15 of the WORST sentences and pits them against the other… we had hoped this would prove as a sounding board, allowing us to come a conclusion that all genres of fiction– literary to steam punk –have horrible writing. Instead, we ended up laughing too much to come to any such conclusion.
As of this episode, all of our podcasts are on iTunes. Simply search “Drunken Literates” and put our idiocy on your mobile device!
One thing NOT on iTunes is this mini-cast of our first caller randomly joining our conversation. Carol asks us our professional opinion on how vampire authors (called “the bad guys”) are changing the DNA of the world through literature and movies. Seriously. You cannot make this shit up. Give a listen!
Episode 3:
BAM! POW! Join us as we talk about comics: the ways it affected our literacy as children, our morality (or lack thereof) as adults, why we need heroes and why people will line-up for the movies but have no desire to pick up the saddle-stitched books attributed to our youth. Chris Bolton, who created the beautiful comic geared toward younger audiences Smash with his brother, offers his insights into how comics went gritty and if web-based comics will attract younger audiences to the medium again. Then we talk to current readers of comics– pulled at random from the employee and customers of the great comic shop Pegasus Books in Bend, OR –and they tell us their reasons for reading this uniquely American genre of literature.
And, just to prove we are qualified to take on this topic, here’s fanboy proof:
Yes— it’s hard to see, but that is c.vance at homecoming sophomore year in high school dressed as Clark Kent, and his poor date as Lois Lane.
Episode 2:
Give a listen as we delve into our love for bookstores and the wares they supply us with… and then compare these charms with the aspect of shopping online. To help us illustrate these points, we berate Portland author Heather Evanson for her inebriated Amazon shopping and then we talk to Tina Davis who started an independent bookstore four years ago— and just closed its doors for good last week. None of the recordings or clips used are used with permission, please don’t sue us… we have nothing. The image above, however, was used with the permission of Joey Cameau; the one below was just implied permission. Take a look at the comic he does with Emily Horne: A Softer World.
Tommy’s Amuse-Bouche
We are pleased as hell to be the first to share this little taste of Tommy Gaffney’s untitled memoir in progress with you:
Three toddlers, three transfers, three stabs trying to find the vein, three hours for the blood to make its way back to the body. From our broken end of town, it took only one hour to get there, after jaywalking to catch up with buses leaving their stop early, but almost three hours to get back home because the frequent service routes stopped running so frequent after dark. Even with fistfuls of tiny hands, there were some close calls. Cars honked but rarely slowed down. Jaywalking’s not quite parting the Red Sea and rumors of miracles certainly ain’t the same as miracles, but faith kept us leaping out into the streets for years, no matter how thick the traffic. There was always money to be made at the Plasma Center. Not much, but some. Only you had to lie to yourself to believe that selling blood was an honest wage. Lie that it would only be this one time, or just one more time, or just for a little while longer until you get back on your feet. You had to lie to the front desk when they asked if you had donated anywhere else since last week’s donation or if you had eaten a nutritious meal that morning. Lie when they made you promise to wait three days for your bloodstream to rebuild itself before dumping booze into it.
It was best to get there early, before the drunks stumbled awake and began to cram themselves into the lobby, soiling every ounce of air. Even then, there was always a wait, up to three hours sometimes. And the only babysitters provided were a couple of Highlights magazines with fading covers and the occasional Jelly Bean Journal with all the puzzles irrevocably solved in blue ink. Blue ink was just enough to cause meltdowns for those just learning to read who had gone through the four books that constituted the home library and were looking forward to sitting down with their Jelly Bean motherfucking Journal, the only thing in the entire world they didn’t have to share with younger sisters. I could never throw the kind of fit I wanted to, though, because the Plasma Center was policed by every mother in there. Dozens of almond eyes scanned the lobby like searchlights over a prison yard. White mothers, black mothers, mexican mothers all waiting their turn on the gurney and any opportunity to yell at children that weren’t theirs. The excitement of it all only added octaves to already piercing lectures. “Don’t put that nasty shit in your mouth” or “quit poking that man, can’t you see he’s asleep. And drunk as shit.” An unwritten rule but one carved in stone, poor folks take care of poor folks, or at least good enough to keep them as bad off as they are
