Arthur Graham > Recent Status Updates

Salustiano Berrios at Horror Sleaze Trash

Lina Buividavičiūtė at Horror Sleaze Trash

Taryn Allan at Horror Sleaze Trash

“They used to build nuke missiles in this town. Now it’s Frito-Lay and hipster condos.”
“Well, you’ve gotta destroy the world somehow. It’s just a longer timeframe now.”

Salustiano Berrios at Horror Sleaze Trash

Richard Dulgheriu at Horror Sleaze Trash

We hadn't been fucking
for very long that summer
before she asked if I could
help her out with something.

How to be a Small Press Success

“Do you realize what you
did? Do you remember?
Do you even care?”

After the first cut

I looked
at myself
in the mirror.

I looked
pretty much
the same—

minus
a bit of lip
and some nose.

I’d been
so scared

but now

something had changed.

I saw myself
for what I truly was:

ugly,
imperfect flesh,

stretched
over bone—

hiding
behind the illusion

of a soul.

This city spills champion bartenders out from
the Lower Ninth to Pigeontown,
Gentilly, Algiers to Mid-city,
the Lower Garden District to Central City,
Seventh Ward, Treme’, Bywater
to the Irish Channel
and every corner in between.

No one wants to read this sad sack poem
pouring out of me after two glasses
of white wine,
so I imagine myself a melancholy
charmingly self-effacing
country singer
with an old song about how
I wish I hadn’t done you wrong,
and how I miss you
like I’d miss the sun

My way of joking is to tell the truth. That's the funniest joke in the world. -- Muhammad Ali
Indeed. . . And that is also as fine a definition of "Gonzo Journalism" as anything I've ever heard, for good or ill.

The Edge. . . There is no honest way to explain it because the only people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.

The fireball Chicano lawyer was on his way to becoming a half-successful writer, a cult figure of sorts -- then a fugitive, a freak, and finally either a permanently missing person or an undiscovered corpse.
Oscar's fate is still a mystery, but every time his case seems to be finally closed, something happens to bring him back to life.

My buddy Jake ran the biggest Jennifer Lawrence competitive eating fan fiction site on the web, spent all of his time belting out these absurd stories that were vaguely erotic, but strictly about JLaw eating large amounts of heavily processed foods.

One time I took five Amphetamine tablets — the gold standard in ADD meds — and played Tetris for 58 hours straight. I got to the point where I could rotate and move the pieces with my mind. I think I could, anyway. I blacked out after that and woke up in a Target men’s room with my wallet, shoes, and socks missing.

Both Carter and his wife have always been amazingly tolerant of my behavior, and on one or two occasions they have had to deal with me in a noticeably bent condition.

One of the constant nightmares of traveling with politicians is the need to keep them in sight at all times.

The only vegan I’ve ever eaten was this chick in my freshman English class, and that didn’t work out well for either of us.

I like to eat breakfast alone, and almost never before noon; anybody with a terminally jangled lifestyle needs at least one psychic anchor every 24 hours, and mine is breakfast.

I took that fatal dive off the straight and narrow path so long ago that I can't remember when I first become a felon -- but I have been one ever since, and it's way too late to change now.

It is extremely difficult to concentrate on the cheap realities of Campaign '76 under these circumstances.

When I was in first grade, my teacher was killed by the KGB, a tiny chunk of polonium 210 dropped in her Ovaltine by a covert agent dressed as a Salvation Army volunteer.

We are living in very strange times, and they are likely to get a lot stranger before we bottom out.

I wrote my self-published book Atmospheres a decade ago on a caffeine-fueled, year-long manic episode that only ended when an ER doctor gave me a heavy dose of Zopiclone.

"Get drunk for 40 days and 40 nights, and then buy a fucking motorcycle. There’s a whole lot of chicks in this town who would fuck out anyone with a motorcycle, no questions asked."

Sound advice on the motorcycle, if I had money. And balance. I broke my arm one time on a bike, not sure how I’d fare on a Harley. A motorcycle purchase wouldn’t be a mid-life crisis for me; it would be an end-of-life crisis.

Looking back on all that, my only feeling for deep-sea fishing is one of absolute and visceral aversion. Hemingway had the right idea when he decided that a .45-caliber submachine gun was the proper tool for shark fishing, but he was wrong about his targets. Why shoot innocent fish, when the guilty walk free along the docks, renting boats for $140 a day to drunken dupes who call themselves "sport fishermen"?

The anglers assured me it was all a great thrill, but on the evidence, I couldn't believe it. The whole idea of fishing, it seemed to me, was to hook a thrashing sea monster of some kind and actually boat the bastard. And then eat it.

It was late Saturday night, as I recall, when we learned that Frank Oliver had officially won the tournament -- by one fish, ahead of the balls-out poor-boy crew on Lucky Striker.