Jess Dukes writes “If you were at the Book Expo America last month in Chicago, hopefully you’ll remember us, because Contemporary Press will never forget you!
Over the course of the weekend, we talked to what felt like a million industry types, but we have to say, we had the best time at our table when the librarians came by.
Apparently, we turned a few heads with our black, 1� buttons that said simply, “F*ck Literature.� Hour after hour, day after day, librarians came by our table to pick up our free, opinionated schwag, and have a good laugh with us.
Eventually, we confirmed that librarians were seeking out the buttons! And we thought no one would notice us, stuck back there in the small press section, with the hideous blue curtains, next to the bathrooms…
In short, we learned many things while in Chicago, but most surprising of all, we learned that Librarians rock! We never knew. We stand corrected.
Thanks for your support, and don’t forget to check out our new release, G.O.P. D.O.A.
See you next year in NYC!
Signed, on behalf of all of us at CP,
Jess Dukes
Managing Editor, Contemporary Press
www.contemporarypress.com”
such depth
From the book description of G.O.P D.O.A on their site:
“The bottom line: it was a couple of days before the convention, you have some dead person in a hotel room and the Christian bunch of you didn’t want to deal with it. Neither did I, for that matter, but you opened a suitcase of money in front of me. And I had my own reasons too.
I gotta hand it to Republicans, you sexless, soulless freaks. You screw the world like it was a crippled geisha, decide to throw a goddamn coronation for that Shemp of yours in the city—my city—fuck that up, and then come hat in hand, face down, and ask me to help you out.
My father would have first spit up bile, then shoved it in your faces if he knew about this shit. Now there was a Goddamn union man. Back when there were unions—big balled, red hot, fighting unions. Now? Fuck ’em. They’ve gone the way of Ed Murrow and honest journalism.
Me, though, I’m a freelancer here. Petty. Inessential. Usually out for myself, a fucking mercenary at the mercy of the master that hired me, or at least some hump willing to moonlight now and then. That’s the world we live in. I wanted the cash. Selling myself for it, I’m told that it’s the American Way.
The city wasn’t hot, it was angry. The air sucks you dry and the concrete steals your soul. Shit, I’ve been walking around limper than Bob Dole’s lap during a Teamsters’ strike, know what I mean? It was fucking limp, I felt ugly, and there was madness in the air. My body’s sagging, but I still feel jagged and blistered, with more than just unfocused anger for fuel. The rest? The anarchists, priests, teachers, firemen, students, Democrats, lefties—those guys? They’re walking around with real, focused, nuclear hate churning inside them like rancid milk. The days are nothing more than internal combustion riots with grinding gears and overheated pistons.
Re:such depth
That reads like one of those contests where you try to write badly. The Edward Bulwer-Lytton Prize winners sound like what they have posted on their website.
I guess some people like it, so if they want to read it thats fine with me.