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Dave Eggers' The Wild Things is available for preorder, in regular hardcover and
limited-edition fur-covered.
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The porn I like is sad, but not too sad. The porn I like is comical, and light-hearted, but neither clownish nor gratuitous. The porn I like involves women, or men, or both, or landscapes, or greenery, or clusters of moisture, or ravages of blight. The porn I like does not offend my good taste; rather, it challenges my mores and forces me to reaffirm what I hold true. Also, the porn I like is in slow motion, and occupies time otherwise spent reading timely brusque fiction, or home-decoration magazines. The porn I like is expensive and rare. I gladly sacrifice Friday pizzas and cable television for the porn I like. I do not, however, sacrifice Monday Night Football, nor do I sacrifice the attentive love of my family. The porn I like isn't rated X; it's rated AW, as in aw yeah. The porn I like is scrumptious as a wedding cake frosted with icing sugar and coconut and stuffed with caramel pudding and mayonnaise and Hershey's syrup and smoked salmon, and should be smeared and drooled accordingly. In the porn I like, everyone is satisfied, and educated, and wealthy, and contributes to worthy causes like Amnesty International, and sometimes the charity and the porn are suffused in a warm spiky glow that emulsifies their elements into a jellyish wash that engulfs and convinces even the sternest-hearted disbeliever. The porn I like isn't made in the San Fernando Valley, or Sweden. It's made in the hearts of every hard-working, tax-paying, freedom-loving citizen of the Free World; also, in Quebec. The porn I like is subtly unrelenting. The porn I like is gentle, then nasty, then gentle, then utterly ghastly, then wraps me up like a burrito in its kindness and good will, and pokes me in massaging prods along my lower neckline where I am sorest from sitting at a computer all day in a $40 chair, then slaps me around and flosses my teeth, then teaches me things I never knew about this crazy species homo sapiens that I pretend to understand, and, finally, it gratifies me and reads me record reviews from MOJO, the porn I like's favourite English music magazine (the porn I like being an avid fan of rare UK discs from the 60s and 70s, most fervently the work of the Yardbirds and the Kinks). The porn I like helps me sleep at night. I sleep in uncoughing slumbers, like a loved child. The porn I like never ends; it's like a moon-crescent promise at the end of a fatty day; it's a dream that pinches itself awake; it's a dune that rises into a crimson moon and bleeds cool preparedness into its witnesses; it calms me with its houndlike whimpers. The porn I like is available to all, at any hour, at no cost, to no chagrin.
OTHER McSWEENEY'S STORIES:
We Must Protest By Jim Stallard Ask a Former Professional Literary Agent, Part XI By John Hodgman Exercise By David Rossmann Nineteen Boys By Sarah Manguso Cases From the Files of Traig & McGrath, Shut-In Detectives By Jenny Traig and Peter McGrath |
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