Love it or lob dirty bombs at it, everybody has an opinion about our nation's first city. And I'm not talking about that puffed-up weak sister Washington, D.C., either: everyone knows America's real capital is Stuyvesant's $24 folly, New York City. Lime Tea will spend November hating it and wishing we lived there.
Outside of John Popper, there are few people less likely to turn up at the Republican National Convention than Marty Smith. (Inside of John Popper, of course, you can meet all kinds of folks.) Nonetheless, LT's editor found himself at the RNC in 2004. Sadly, he would lose himself again a scant few minutes later.
Yes, this is a rerun, but we'll bet you don't remember it. Even if you do, read it again; it's been a while. It's about all the ways you can apologize to people in New York City. And this is only one day-- no wonder everyone there is so on edge.
After a year-long hiatus, Lime Tea is back with our take on the three things that make our modern world go round. You may not like them, but when the chips are down, which would you rather have - the love and understanding of a good friend? Or a good attorney, a loaded Glock, and $30M in negotiable securities?
According to author James R. Cooley, "This is a true story. Bam-Bam's Python really is still twist-tied to the drug paraphernalia and weapons board in the Benton County courthouse, and yes, indeed, said sheriff did get his fool legs broke in the manner indicated." And those two things aren't even really what the story's about.
What happened to screw up LT this time, in case anyone cares. Also contains the upcoming themes, so you should read at least the last three paragraphs.
A former Marine indulges his natural tendency to be a pussy by playing with the kind of gun that won't hurt babies' ears. That said, sometimes it's hard to put the well-tuned professionalism of the battle-tested soldier completely behind you - especially if your friend is being a total douche.
"I get murderers out of prison. Or, at least, that's what I tell people. In reality, I'm not that good."
Our exploration of punching the clock, working for the weekend, and bringing home the bacon. Whether it's making copies at a law firm or sweating your way through customs with a dozen condoms full of cocaine up your ass, everybody has to take it from the man sometime.
It's not every day you get offered the opportunity to develop
a children's television program. Unless you live in Los Angeles, where such
opportunities are routinely offered to random people milling around in front
of methadone clinics at 5:30 am. No, I don't know why either.
Yeah, this is a repeat too-- but for some reason all of a sudden
we're getting zillions of hits from lindsayism.com.
Plus, Lindsay updates faithfully with good timekillers, weird info, and sleazy
celebrity gossip. Give her a second look.
They don't make little stickers you can wear on your shirt that
say, "Be Nice To Me; I Gave Head Today." Our correspondent discovers
why, and, in the process, confronts the inevitable crappiness of human existence.
With household hints!
The period between discovering that one is cursed with the unremunerative
vocation of being a writer and realizing a living wage at that same craft can
be a long one-- anywhere from a few years to the length of time it takes to
observe, firsthand, the death of the Sun. One writer gives her views on how
to kill time while waiting.
Specifically designed to help you rejoice in the fact that you
don't have to fight bulls for a living, this story/experiment/prank/WTFever
explores the perfectly rational ramifications of a pefectly normal set of circumstances
that happen to involve one man eating another's testes. Happens every day.
Some writers write, and some writers write about writing. This
week's fiction correspondent does both simultaneously, in a fashion reminiscent
of John Barth. Those who consider themselves too clever to read fiction should
consider this.
The second in a two-part series about real-life Paris, this essay
is nominally about how Parisians earn enough money to survive in a city where
a package of ramen costs the equivalent of 75 U.S. dollars. In actuality, like
all of this author's stories, it's about buying illegal drugs on the street.
Let There Be, by
Bronwyn Chiquonfatt {pseudoscience}
For some reason, this one is about drugs as well. But scientific
work is still work, and the area of sociology that covers groups of 6 to 8 people
gathered in a single bathroom is one that, till now, has been sorely neglected
by the academy.
This month in Lime Tea, we pay tribute to the undeniable
appeal of the arrogant bastard, the cocksure, self-centered prick, and every
person who's ever walked by you on the street with that unmistakable, unshakable
confidence in the absolute perfection of their hairstyle. We love them, we hate
them, we want to kill them and be them: the cool jerks.
The fondest hope of a middle-school -aged girl is to hook up
with a guy over 18. Unfortunately, the type of 18-year old guy who hooks up
with middle-school girls is, aside from his ability to slightly increase the
net total of lesbians in the world, pretty much useless. Our correspondent dodges
a bullet she didn't even realize was headed her way till years later.
There's a fine line between "fascinating character"
and "the reason God made restraining orders." Sometimes the difference
can be something as simple as whether or not the individual in question is likely
to be sleeping on your couch. A story you're sure to enjoy-- just make sure
you've locked your doors.
Aside from being right about the war, inventing culture, and
helping us found our country, what have the French ever done for us? A traveller
tells us what it's like getting the hairy eyeball from residents of the world's
second-most arrogant nation.
Is he the angel you're hoping for, or a fiend in human shape?
Sometimes you have to take the chance. One of Lime Tea's most patient
authors explores this delicate balance, using that broken-up multi-part stucture
we seem to like so much.
As Tom Waits so eloquently put it, at first it's "hubba-hubba-hubba
and a ring-a-ding-ding; baby, you've got everything." Two weeks later,
it's "hubba-hubba-hubba and a ring-a-ding-dong; baby, sure didn't last
too long." A too-brief affair in two brief acts.
There's a fine line between being a sonofabitch and telling it
like it is, and we think it's about time somebody around here crossed it. The
all-true story of how Lime Tea began-- read it now, before the restraining orders
come in.
An oblique homage to this month's theme subject, in five parts.
Nice and short; it will provide you with a breath of fresh air after some of
the long-winded, bile-soaked screeds you read on the net these days.
As far as we're concerned, this isn't even close to being a fair
fight, and if you know us as well as we think you do, we're pretty sure you've
got a good idea of who we're putting our money on. Or, rather, your money, if
you don't mind sporting us a sawbuck on a sure thing.
Sometimes, you could give a rat's ass what anybody thinks. Especially
when, for whatever reason, what you think has become unaccountably important
to others. An author who knows how to mind his own business makes some suggestions
on how others might mind theirs.
Defenestration
is an online litmag that is never afraid to overreach, with pieces that are
nice and short.
Sometimes the most appropriate action is simply to scream, cry,
break crockery, or haul an assault rifle to the nearest tall building and wait
for the riot squad to settle it. Even if you've never taken things quite that
far, March is your month to bask in the reflected glory of those who have--
or empathize with those who've stood by in mute horror while others did. Let's
go crazy.
Want to have a lovely, Hemingwayesque/lost-generation-style retreat
to Spain to restore your tissues? Go for it-- just don't be surprised if the
locals don't appreciate your literary fantasy. Also known as "getting killed
in Spain."
Just because the crazy uncle is a total cliché doesn't mean that
some people don't actually have a crazy uncle. Was it Vietnam, child abuse,
or plain old vanilla heroin that drove lifer carnie Steve round the bend?
Gainesville, Florida's Identity
Theory is a solid read for those who've been complaining that the
Link of the Week is always the blog of some total stranger we have an intellectual
crush on.
Don't give up; believe in yourself; light up the sky like a flame--
the 80s were all about being whatever you wanted if you just tried hard enough.
But where do you draw the line between "holding on tight to your dream"
and "frantically clinging to a hopelessly lost cause?"
It's said that when you press your ear to the marshmallow-fluff
confections known as Peeps, you can hear the winds of madness howling-- God
only knows what might happen if you actually ate one. A woman is driven to the
brink by these quasi-edible demon-spawn.
What's not to love about a 6' 7" stranger who gets
you in his car and then can't shut up about how he's going to take you back
to his apartment, hack you to bits, and pack you into twenty-seven separate
Mason jars?
Someone once said, "Nothing good happens after 2 am."
That doesn't mean you can't look for answers in desperate, coke-fueled predawn
couplings-- it just means you won't find any. Read it and weep, sucker.
Steve Douglass's Steveblog
is spazzy, inconsistent, and frequently hilarious.
This month in Lime Tea, tales of family, genetics, and
the ties that bind, gag, and leave for dead. Blood is, indeed, thicker than
water... and a hell of a lot harder to get out of the carpet.
A childhood tale featuring the world's most clapped-out one-in-a-million
car. Plus, of course, the contention featured in the title-- you've got to love
a Dad who can get in an argument about culinary aesthetics with a four-year-old
and almost lose.
Okay, technically it's not Armenians per se, but slavering,
vicious, half-wild Armenian dogs the size of adolescent moose. Still, this story
features blood, violence, and the sounds of rending flesh. Armenia, Transylvania;
what's the diff?
As any number of ex-presidents could tell you (if they were alive,
and you were the sort of person who talks to ex-presidents), it's never the
crime that gets you, it's the attempted coverup. The story of a lie that couldn't
be taken back.
What if you died and nothing changed-- at least, not right away?
In this promising short, a man finds that wrapping your mind around mortality
is in some ways harder than putting your head through a brick wall.
Some people are just born lucky, a fact which has absolutely
no bearing on this true-life tale of modern hedonism, turn-of-the-century gunplay,
and medieval chivalry (or lack thereof). Our correspondent traces his family's
ill fortunes through history.
A man of science reflects upon spirituality, work, and the pros
and cons of growing up to be everything your mother hoped for. Only in this
case, he'll need to reflect fast, because time (and possibly space) appear to
be running out. You do the math.
Lime Tea could be funnier than Punch, cleverer
than The New Yorker, cooler than Vice, bigger than Jesus,
and Better Than Ezra if it were not for one insurmountable obstacle: your Mom.
Lots of content, lots of links, Jenny Miller's Heck's
Kitchen will keep you busy with your Busy Box.
As of 2005, Lime Tea comes out every Friday with a few
stories, rather than bimonthly with a whole bunch. Join us here each week, my
friends; you're sure to get a smile.
Part 2 of a series we didn't tell you was in two parts until
we were sure we were actually going to get to publish the second one. Another
tale of what hysterical teenaged diaries call "forbidden longings,"
we call it "the kind of crap teenagers have to put up with."
For a guy who can never be bothered to show up for anything,
God sure does manage to get his name in the papers a lot. An essayist decides
to call the Deity out once and for all-- if he gets his face slapped so be it,
so long as it leaves a mark with visible stigmata.
The site we wanted to pick this week appears to be on vacation,
so we'll save them for sometime when they're dressed and ready to receive visitors.
In the meantime, check out the Million
Writers Award. If you read little magazines like this one, perhaps
you'll have a story you saw in the past year you'd like to nominate. And, no,
we're not trying to drop a hint. Well, not much, anyway.
Everyone has waited for a sign from God at one time or another--
you just better hope it's not the one the reads, "We Reserve
the Right to Refuse Service to Anyone." And you thought arguing with the bartender
was a waste of time.
A young girl's hardcore fundamentalist parents encounter the ultimate evil, and send it to bed without any supper. Looks like she'll have to find something to eat on her own. A mostly true story of the banality of evil, and the evil of banality.
If there were such a thing as Cubist storytelling, this story
might very well be it. Of course, there isn't any such thing, so you may have
to give up on labeling things and think for a minute. Architecture vs. God
vs. language in a tag-team grudge match.
If Keane had painted junkies as big-eyed, soulful waifs, the
narrator of this piece would have five or six of them on her couch. As it is,
she's got two or three. Look what followed me home-- can I keep him?
If there is no God, how can He possibly manage to annoy us in
so many ways? A writer meditates on cycling daily from womb to tomb and back
again, with obligatory nods to cloning and Ukrainian hotties.
Like foxholes, oncology wards are notably atheist-free. Even
if (perhaps even especially if) you have only moments to live, you've
got time to enjoy this short-short from a promising young American writer.
