Futons.

Garbage Boyz James Fred. Hit! Press, $12.95 paper (176p) ISBN 000-0-000000-01-6

Brix­ton sen­sa­tion Fred, in this peppy novel about a pair of cousins — Hesh, 17, and Mar­lick, 19 — who spend a week­end throw­ing a bunch of garbage off “Grammy’s ter­race” while their girl­friends are away in another coun­try sell­ing con­doms, tells a mem­o­rable tale of late teenage angst. The cousins drink car­tons of brandy in the bath­room together, take turns with the punch­ing bag while lis­ten­ing to Simon & Gar­funkel, and spend sev­eral hours sit­ting on park benches “chew­ing gum, kick­ing pigeons, and star­ing at the female passerby.” The ter­race is stocked with a great range of objects suit­able for chuck­ing, and all is shap­ing up to be “an entirely mad” week­end. The only prob­lem is that early Sunday morn­ing they hit an “elderly police­man on the head with a crate of tulips.” This leads to their arrest, and the rest of the novel is set in a “little prison” where the cousins are sub­ject to var­i­ous “little unpleas­antries, mostly involv­ing feath­ers and mis-​prescribed eye­glasses.” Garbage Boyz is a rol­lick­ing depic­tion of stu­pid­ity and dis­tress, and a fine addi­tion to the relent­less line of paper­back orig­i­nals that Hit! Press is spray­ing into the mar­ket­place. Read­ers look­ing for some­thing to glance at while on the can should turn else­where; Fred has cooked up some­thing a little more seri­ous here, which most office work­ers will enjoy over the course of three or four lunch hours.

From “Hot Bur­rito #2” by the Flying Bur­rito Brothers:

1) “Yes you love me and you sold my clothes.”

2) “Yes you love me and you stole my clothes.”

3) “Yes you love me and you sew my clothes.”

I always thought it was 1 or 2— not 3, but some­where I heard 3 is the right one. [I also thought “4 dead in Ohio” was “Oh daddy oh ay oh” for years, so ah um.]

Sub­script: Graham Foust, in an inter­view some years ago with David Pavelich at Chicago Post­mod­ern Poetry:

“A lot of times I’ll hear some­thing incor­rectly and then like it better than the “cor­rect” ver­sion and then decide to use it in a poem.  I’d wager that a huge number of lines in my work were hap­pened upon or “writ­ten” in that way, though I’d also wager that I couldn’t go back and label which ones with any cer­tainty.”

You find a lot of weird text strewn about the street and air­ways of any city, espe­cially during an eco­nomic prob­lem, when people feel low and don’t feel like pick­ing things up, but rather drop­ping them on the ground. “Forget it,” seems to be the phrase on the tip of everyone’s tongue. I’ve been col­lect­ing weird bits of paper for­ever, and here I share some of the stuff I found recently— scraps just blow­ing around the doorstep and public lobby— in no par­tic­u­lar order and with no effort to explain or neaten or con­tex­tu­al­ize any of it any fur­ther, because I can’t.