Jimmy Chen

I have a scar on my lower right abdomen from a herniated protrusion, which is when your guts “pop out” of their abdominal lining, often dropping into the testes. No 2-year-old should have guts for balls, no matter how manly it may sound.

I want you to tease me with the pain of plausibility. I want not a jiggling rap video booty, but just a butt. A nice anthropologically sound, soft, woman’s ass. I want to calmly rest my snifter on the counter, to hell with the rest of my Rémy Martin XO Spécial ($141.99, 750ml).

Nine Inch Nails’ “March of the Pigs” (2002) industrial aesthetic, shot live in one take in a bare warehouse studio, embodies the band’s no nonsense disposition. Front man Trent Reznor, known for an abrasive facetiously tortured stage presence, delivers many of his trademark moves, examined herein.

The art of air guitar lies in the accuracy with which you perform it; thus, you need to understand the fundamental “logic” of the actual guitar. There is a visceral aspect to air guitar which, while not necessarily empirical, is indeed analytical. There are 6 strings: the one closest to your nipple is the lowest, and each string underneath is 5 “steps” (except in one case, 4) higher.

To the breast milk fed kid who grows up a fully nourished 6′ 2″ tall, with pleasant demeanor and perhaps biblical name, I hope you say thank you when — perhaps in line at the gates of heaven, or just Disneyland — I look up at you with longing eyes.

It was raining — or maybe I just think it was, like a false memory of it raining, convenient droplets forming a cinematic veil in front of me, like aestheticized atoms forming a friendlier universe, which is what lonely people tend to do, try to make beauty out of sadness. Without the memory of people, one settles for nature. Without nature, one settles for the mind. It doesn’t work.

Let me begin by saying that my employers have not particularly seduced me with my salary, whose compensatory effects are less than enthralling. Put simply, I get paid just enough to pay whatever the hell bills wind up in my mailbox, and if I’m lucky, at the end of the month, I can get the 16 year Scotch instead of the 12 year. Yes, I am into 16-year-olds; I hear that’s legal in France.

Winona Ryder, I really hope you Google yourself and find this article. It probably won’t be the first search result, so I hope you can scroll. Or I hope your friends, or agent, or somebody forwards this to you.

The following interview aims to exploit my mother’s confusion about the internet, its technologies, and her natural inclination towards it; transcribed in-person in the guest bedroom where I was staying, a verbatim account is offered herein.

Jon Rafman is a lucky man for at least two reasons: (1) his priceless sensibility is a veil through which he sees a more beautiful world, a precious one that reaches such a state through the very aesthetic of non-preciousness; (2) he, through scouring the near infinite territory of Google street views, is statistically even able to consistently find universal moments of “condensed being” which would make the greatest haiku poet weep.

I always get an Americano—a double-espresso with hot water, devised to mimic a regular cup of coffee; thus “Americano” is a euro-centric designation of the kind of drink it aims to be, namely, for Americans. Sometimes I see him on the weekends, downtown or something, outside of our respective jobs, and he calls out “Hey, Americano!” as he does not know my name.

In less than four hours, the purple fermented love potion which had been trapped inside for over 8 years had finally been exorcized into a glass, briefly, where it swirled as a miniature kind of hurricane-and then was emptied into my mouth, down my esophagus, where such swallowed Gods resided in my stomach, softly rippled by the faint beat of my drunken heart.