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This skit was written by Johnny Lurg when he first created this page.

from Bonobo Magazine

Tommy Lee Gatz: So, what’s this novel All the Wrong Dudes you’ve been talking about for all these years?

Johnny Lurg: It’s a 200-page epic I started writing back in the year 2006.  You could say it’s the story of the future San Francisco apocalypse, but at least for me it’s so much more.  Most likely it’ll never find a publisher, just because publishers aren’t too crazy about its lack of chapters, a consistent plot, or the fictionalized San Fran geography.  Or the accidental misogyny.  Or the casual references to the Antichrist for that matter.  But, All the Wrong Dudes will forever hold a place in my heart as my masterwork.  Even though the poetry in it is intentionally lousy, certain prose scenes are highlights of my entire career.  Like the Eunuch Colony Open Mic, for instance.  Classic if not classy stuff.  It’ll be hard for me to finally quit that kind of writing for my upcoming autism novel.

TLG: Speaking of which, quite a few of your works invoke the subject of autism.  There was your short story “Autistic Freedom,” and that new poem, “Zach.”  Will this new book resemble those pieces?

JL: Yes and no.  I’m aiming for something more comedic, but at the same time, grimier.  But, yeah, “Autistic Freedom” was a good starting point.  I just worry how the Aspie community would view that story.  If you’re a teenage Aspie going through tough times, you don’t want to read about how another Aspie’s struggles culminate in homelessness.  You want the power to succeed.

So, my first poetry chapbook, “A Nifty Little Lifetime,” is finally finished.  It’s 13 of the best Johnny Lurg poems, from “Homesickness” to “Generation Y.”  If you’re interested, ask me in whatever way you like for a copy.  I’ll be delighted to give you one for free.

Me?  I’d better get back to reading The Brothers Karamazov.

But first, a bonus scene from my novel:

“…and, wouldn’t you know, that’s another homer for Chuck Smith!  The Giants will probably win this game by now.  Unless rookie slugger Ziggy Zarves can prevent it, I mean.  Not that he’s bad, no.  He’s just got that ‘fresh young fellow’ look to him.”

Rod Niccolo sat on a broken bleacher, predictably underjoyed, watching his favorite baseball player hit what, contrary to anything the announcer had to say, was his first home run of the entire season.  Rod haunted Pac Bell Park on days like this, days when his underinflated ego took control of his well-fed body.  But Rod was not a chronic sports fan.  He tried to balance that part of his life out with “Weezer Wednesdays,” a weekly fiasco wherein Rod would purchase an alarming number of music CDs related to the forgotten alternative band Weezer.  “They told me not to bother, but I can’t get past Rivers Cuomo’s beautiful singing voice.  It’s far from that afflicted croon which ruined the first couple Kirks records I bootlegged.  I mean, gosh,” Rod told a television reporter a few years back.  The reporter had perhaps wisely decided not to air Rod’s comments, fearing that no one in the municipality of San Francisco would want to have anything to do with a man who listened to anything but the childish pop of that decade.  Despite the lack of positive feedback from the passerby, Rod loaded up on Weezer every time he stepped into Amoeba Music in Haight-Ashbury.

The baseball game was coming to a quick closure, and Rod decided it was best to leave the game for another round of “Weezer Wednesdays,” one day early.  After all, one of the opposing Dodgers, Jim Soot, had “Say It Ain’t So” play whenever he entered the diamond.  Why shouldn’t that be a reason to shop, especially in a town where any minute, an evil demon might pop up and trick Rod into renouncing his immortality?  Rod, knowing of such evil demons, got out of his seat and made a slight effort to greet one of his culinary college buddies, Mac Adamia, who was smoking a cigar a few rows back.

“Hey Mac!  How’s the cookie business?”

“I sell jerky,” replied Mac.

“Jerky is nice.  Remember Antonio from meat science?  I hear Antonio’s gone gourmet, spicing up his jerkies in every way imaginable!  He was quite the innovator, Antonio.  Maybe if you’re around North Beach sometime, we can meet up around Vic’s Hemp House and sample some of those Dijon jerkies and whatnot.”

“Yeah, North Beach.  You’re not gonna believe this, but—eh—North Beach’s not exactly booming with Dijon jerkies and hemp houses right now.  Turns out the whole neighborhood’s Neo-Edsel toast, if you know what I mean.  Let’s just say that the flags were at half-mast for a reason during ‘This Land is Your Land,’ and according to the Chronicle’s website—well, some Niccolos might be coming home to you in an ashtray.  Sorry to break it to ya, pal, but some Neo-Edsels thought it was a good idea to light a fart on Little Italy.”

Practically immune to this kind of thing by now, Rod simply nodded.  “Names of Niccolos, please.” “Sure.  Lenny Niccolo, Carl Niccolo, ‘Uncle Victor’ Niccolo—according to the article though, he was unhealthy at best—and, get ready, Grover Ernus, the proprietor of that pizzeria you worked at.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said Rod.  “In that case, I’m buying twice the Weezer that I wanted in the first place.”

“My sister sells urns.  Call her if you need some for all that ash,” replied Mac.