Books We Can't Quit: Microserfs by Douglas Coupland

Chosen by: Alicia Kennedy

Original Publication Date: 1996

 

Sometimes I think, I miss the places I used to go in those books I used to read. I don’t really know what it means. Do I miss being adolescent, spending weekend days lying on the living room couch with whatever book I judged by its cover at Borders? Of course. But what I’m getting at with this vague thought is more about missing how lost I could get in another world, with characters who felt like friends, whose lives I felt I was living a little bit, too.
My transition from reading young adult fiction to adult fiction was pretty sudden. In sixth grade, I was reading series books about girls a little bit older than me who were getting their periods and making out with boys for the first time. In seventh grade, I stumbled upon Bret Easton Ellis’s Less Than Zero. It was a whole new, nihilistic world. And then there was Irvine Welsh’s Trainspotting and an intense Kafka phase (that still hasn’t really ended). The book from that time that I read over and over again, though, wasn’t dark at all. It was Douglas Coupland’s Microserfs, and I picked it up because of the cover’s deliciously clean lines, cute Lego man, and the pages of numbers and repeated words and weirdly sized text I saw while flipping through it. Unlike a lot of the other stuff I tried to get my mom to buy me, this was an easy sell after she read the jacket copy. That could not keep me immune to its charms.

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A Forsley Feuilleton: the Hollywood Machine started feeding unoriginal ideas to unsuspecting movie-goers as a cheap alternative to risk

Last Memorial Day weekend I went to Rasputin – the music/movie store from Berkeley, not the ‘Mad Monk’ from Siberia – to get a war flick, not a magic dick.  I planned on honoring our country’s fallen soldiers by lying on the couch for days, smoking bowls of The Bay’s finest buds, giving my pooch belly rubs, and watching Hollywood’s stars die in emulation of Washington’s pawns.  But I couldn’t find a good war flick – all the good war flicks are anti-war flicks – so I got Straw Dogs.

The 1971 Straw Dogs is Sam Peckinpah’s best flick and, though not a traditional war flick, it captures the violence and madness behind war. . . or at least behind the men behind war.  As written in the Tao Te Ching, “Heaven and Earth are heartless / treating creatures like straw dogs.” In the spirit of Memorial Day, I wanted Peckinpah to illustrate how Heaven and Earth heartlessly treat us – especially those who die in wars – like straw dogs.  But I got the wrong flick.  Yes, it was titled Straw Dogs. . . but it was a 2011 remake.  Continue reading

Win with Shut Up/Look Pretty

Did you read Shut Up/Look Pretty? You can win goodies from Tiny Hardcore!

Each chapter of my contribution to the book, Local God (a novella about four boys in a terrible punk band at Stirling University), is titled with a song by a Scottish band. For example, the first chapter is ‘A Space Boy Dream’ after this song by jangly doom-mongers Belle & Sebastian:

The first three people to email kirsty@pankmagazine.com with the band names for all nine chapters will each win an e-book of their choice from Tiny Hardcore Press. This includes books by Tyler Gobble, Brian Oliu, Christopher Newgent, Robb Todd, Brandi Wells and xTx.

If you don’t have the book yet but want to be in with a chance to win, you can get the e-book of Shut Up/Look Pretty for $6.50.

Now go! Win!

A Forsley Feuilleton: Franz Kafka Should Have Spent His Time Shooting Dice With Confidence On The Corner Instead Of Writing Letters In confidence on the paper – Act One

This month I’ve only written one Forsley Feuilleton – I’m writing the second right now.  I blame my lack of productivity on my lack of brain activity, and I blame my lack of brain activity on my lack of nourishing meals, and I blame my lack of nourishing meals on my lack of income, and I blame my lack of income on my lack of writing talent, and I blame my lack of writing talent on my lack of brain activity, and I blame my lack of brain activity on my. . . you get the picture.  And if you don’t like the picture you get, ship a bag of apples, a box of sardines, and jar of multi-vitamins my way so next week’s Forsley Feuilleton will more closely resemble a picture of a naked Scarlett Johansson than the leopard pattern spandex and a rusted tinfoil sailor hat wearing street schizophrenic that this week’s Feuilleton resembles.

The picture you get from this week’s Feuilleton – the one I’m writing right now – doesn’t have the solidness and smoothness of a naked Johansson. . . it has the randomness and ruggedness of that street schizophrenic who, just yesterday in San Francisco, grabbed my little tattooed arms and said: “Franz Kafka should have spent his time shooting dice with confidence on the corner instead of writing letters in confidence on the paper.”

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