To the tune of: Hey, Big Spender

Amber_Tamblyn2

The minute I logged on your blog,
I could see you were a man of distinction,
Real prestigious!
Prestigious,
So divine,
Wouldn’t you like to know what’s goin’ on in my mind?

So let me blog right to the point:
I haven’t got a f*cking idea in my heaaaaaaad!

Hey, Prestigious!
Hey, Prestigious!

Give a little blurb to me,
Give a little blurb to me,
(music fades)
Give a little prize to me,
Give a little prize to me…

(Music swells for a vamping finale)

(Music ends)

(in a sexy whisper) Jorie’s got a chair at Harvard, so anything’s
possible, sugar!

(Wink)

(Drum shot)

7 Comments

  1. thomasbrady said,

    October 3, 2009 at 6:48 pm

    Bye-bye, Finch.

    So long, Myles.

    Hellooooooooooooo, Amber!

  2. thomasbrady said,

    October 4, 2009 at 1:14 am

    To the tune of ‘Something’

    Something in the way she blogs
    Attracts me like no other blogger…
    Something in the way she blogs me..
    I just want to read her now…
    I just want to read and how…

    You’re askin’ me will this thread grow,
    I don’t know, I don’t know…
    You stick around now, it may show…
    I don’t know, I don’t know…

    Something in the way she writes,
    “It’s a real tour, for real this time. Not just a pinch of Los Angeles and a dash of New York between shooting episodes of ‘Joan of Arcadia’. You’re gonna read at Prairie Lights Book Store in Iowa. That shit is for real! You are real this time. Why open yourself up to the judgments of a prestigious poetry website? Like you know shit about Voltaire or Tanka poetry. Stay safe.”
    attracts me like no other blogger…

    I just want to read her now,
    I just want to read and how…

    Da da da daaa daaaa daaaaaaaaaaaaah…

  3. poetryandporse said,

    October 4, 2009 at 2:02 am

    “Don’t bother,” said a tiny, weary voice in the ditzzie bore’s head, on reading a begging letter from whatsiguy: Nobholes soliciting me to write for, like, what I want: anything at all, for the Foetry Poundation.

    “Only linguistically innovative craftspersons, emissaries of the word are welcome in my inbox” I thought. Feck off Nobholes.

    And when the sad git rang me up asking if I’d do it for more than the other non-actresses – the bores who actually write poetry; I thought – yeah, take the piss out of Nobholes, the failure whose pathetic attempt at injecting pizzazz is like, totally lame and shit. But hey, i get like, four hundred to spout ten minutes drivel between flicking my hair and looking sexy. Not bad for someone who lies for a living.

    Nobles?

    Couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery: spell-check Celebrity and the word ‘aficionado’, only correct it to BSW – bullshit worlds.

    He is an academic with credibility problems, and I am a Hollywood playa; an actress who can actually spell her name, who waits tables only half the year, doesn’t even have to live in Hollywood to get Nobholes drooling like Forrest Gimp over a weenie bar.

    I am his conscience, and what I say goes. Like any crap thespian subconscious, I live by the labels that dead sexy fella who got banned, has given me. It was him and his two mates who get me excited, not Nobholes at the Foetry Poundation. Take him seriously? His writing?

    Pack it in. Stay home, drop the dream and ask me very nicely: dear Fame, please can you control my image. At the mo is one who is a prissy Scottish presbyterian mind, with an over-cooked sense of my self-importance; just because I work in computers, modding a chat gaffe?

    A joker, layabout about to embark on my first major flop, that will define the early part of my journey to total obscurity as a foetry poet.

    I’m gonna read at Prairie Lights Book Store in Iowa, one day. Moi, Nobholes, and what’s for sure is, I won’t be remembered for anything other than being, rubbish: in the judgment of anyone prestigious, who knows a shit website when they visit one. Unless I apologize to the three people I acted foolishly over, who I got to wrong about – and ask them to come back, as paid staff on 300 for a short blog – in perpetuity, as full time life-long resident bloggers who can lead me out the shit.

    I aint O’Hara or Voltaire, more a muppet, Thomas the Tank Engine, a plastic, 50 years more to go before i get close to even making it as poetic as the three dead chatty, interesting and eloquent people i treated unfairly, for a variety of reasons which I conned myself by ignoring them – were not in play when i acted like an idiot and made a Nobhole of myself.

    So why bother doing it. Asking you who I picked from a photo? Because I am devoid of ideas and, well, boring and not creative really. I know, i thought, everyone else is doing lame stuff. Look at J ‘n K, the famous poets, who get by on bollocks.. Why can’t i do what I want? Why can’t I just write to some pretty chick and ask her if she wants to, like, not even pretend. Neat idea, a real Nobholes one, I thought, when not writing – which is most of the time.

    Desmond Swords

  4. cowpattyhammer said,

    October 4, 2009 at 4:07 am

    That’s it exactly, Des, in a flaming nutshell!

    It takes Scarriet to tell it like it is, doesn’t it, because you wouldn’t be allowed to WRITE what you meant like that on Harriet, you’d have to squeeze it out in 140 tiny pellets or less. Yeah, that’s an art form too, but who would have thought the Poetry Foundation of America would end up actually sponsoring constipation?

    And does what Desmond writes mock Amber Tamblyn as a writer? Does it make her look bad as a poet? On the contrary, all that Irish blather gets Amber right up there where she belongs, leaving Travis still stuck back at square one in the office on Friday evening, uninterested in anything about his new client but what she can do for his credits. For Travis, Amber Tamblyn’s a trophy!

    And of course we’re waiting for the Comments, (Click Here Da Dah!) on Harriet — to see who says what about who this young writer is and what she is saying.

    Yes, who on Harriet can rise to Amber’s level?

    Christopher

  5. poetryandporse said,

    October 4, 2009 at 4:58 am

    That’s it Woodie.

    I was wondering where you and G would head toward. Upward into satirical buoyancy, it seems. One which rises to greater heights of entertainment and eloquence, than when your creative freedoms were being constricted by a lesser imaginative force. A boy who acted like a child and still is. Shame. Big shame.

    Amber is delightful, a real breath of fresh air. She has brought a very open, free and reflexive quality to the former dump i’ve already forgotten. The fairly brief effort at courtship for a brilliant summer bloom in which several leaves of decent gas were safely captured via the act of artistic play.

    I learned after being slung out of most dumps: kips that are ruled by one person executive bodies implementing rules conducive to owning a conversational gulag, ruled by pats and condescension, stifle real exchange. A shame others who’re Vartsi reading us who are ‘them’ – wholly wrong: isn’t it?

    It is embarrassing and unexpected, but also predictably expected, because the magic that was never really there, was never really there, due to it being US, who were the magic there where Vartis ipf U vont: expurgate, expurgate. Dr Who and the Vratsi Daleks, programmed to exterminate the like, dis-like, disl-like, dis-like: inert a darlek’s moan, statistically spout, static, no go, a wash out, the absence of sound in free flow, coherently embarrassing and Vartsin utterly humiliated by three people who are but remote intelligence, wholly psychic energies and entities, we met online, through words only. And for this, we find fame comes easily because, we have won the WaR, by weaving and remaining in the theatre of operations, skimming stones into space and asking only for fun, a chuckle, net inflow of happiness and feeling we’ve achieved our goal: being ourselves, and the three who all it takes to start a school of the real new thing. Scarriet J. Easy US who are not the other ‘them’ one persons who mod that gaffe whose name i can’t even remember now. The quiet place drying up: the place we stormed and brought to Here.

    the Thing most incredibly important and new to US, as them who none can censor, but whom can, and do: not sound strangled@home but more important than whasiface, that boring obscure dalek, vartis the drips name again please: Nobholes?

    Desmond Swords

  6. cowpattyhammer said,

    October 4, 2009 at 5:27 am

    Dear Amber,

    I don’t want you to get discouraged and quit. Indeed, I want you to hang in there and prove to the world that Travis Nichols was right about your writing skills, that he was right to put his trust in your thoughts and your experience. I want you to talk in your own voice and be heard and loved and respected, and I mean that.

    What I worry about is that you will look at these two satirical posts on Scarriet and feel we are trashing you, whereas we’re not at all. We’re trashing Blog:Harriet not you, and in particular we’re trashing its editor, Travis Nichols.

    In fact there is nothing Thomas Brady, Alan Cordle, Desmond Swords or myself have said about you that looks down on you as an actress, a writer, or a person. What we’re doing is exposing Travis Nichols’ exploitation of you, and that’s awful. Because it was Travis intention right from the start to re-make Blog:Harriet into a trendy, young, in your face, Poetry Disco that would advance the style and aesthetic pre-occupations of his ChiChi School of Poetry and its affiliates. In fact, he hi-jacked Harriet for his own purposes, and has placed you, Amber Tamblyn, on his center stage with all his lights and sophisticated systems wired up to your person. And it’s this that’s demeaning, because it’s in fact Travis Nichols who doesn’t take you seriously, not us. He’s just using you as a drip!

    As you probably know, the four of us were banned from Blog:Harriet at the beginning of September. But what wasn’t clear at the time is that we were being banned partly to prepare the way for a new type of Contributing Writer, you included, and Travis was afraid of what our response might be. But, in fact, had we still been on Harriet we would have taken you very seriously, not regarded you as a fashionable bauble as he does. We would have listened to what you had to say and responded to it in a way that you yourself would have found really fun — outrageous and off-the-wall sometimes, o.k, but always with respect and always inspiring. Because we would always have written back to you just like you liked to write to us, and in so doing I think we would have helped the whole Harriet community to open up and celebrate poetry — as we always did in the past, and everybody knows that.

    And therein lies a huge irony. Because without exception the Contributing Writers in May, June and July always made it clear that Thomas Brady was their most faithful and resourceful respondent, and frequently thanked him in public, as did Martin Earl, for example — everyone who was there on “The Fallacy of Closure” thread will remember that one. Indeed, it was Tom who powered the extraordinary flowering of Harriet that happened in the spring, and he did it almost alone!

    As to me, I came later and wasn’t nearly as influential as Tom, but know that some of the Contributing Writers would have said I too added to the success of those wonderful months, as did Desmond Swords after his even later arrival.

    The whole place was jumping, Amber, you can’t imagine!

    And now it’s stuck on one stale techno note, the lights are too bright and the tiny ‘crowd’ that are still trying to look good are too much the same age and height, wear the same costume, hairstyle and makeup, and are all very bored. Whether they’re boring or not I wouldn’t like to say, but they’re obviously bored.

    And you’ve been led out onto that badly lit stage, beautiful Amber Tamblyn, with all your wonderful valley-girl kitsch and soap-opera genius, and you’ve been asked to perform live. Did they tell you the place would be dead when they hired you? Did they tell you everybody you might have made friends with would have been purged?

    But don’t worry, Amber, we’ll continue to give you encouragement truly on the wild-side all night long here on Scarriet , and if you ever want to join us you’d always be welcome. Just log in and you’re on. And do tell David.

    With very best wishes,

    Christopher Woodman

  7. poetryandporse said,

    October 4, 2009 at 7:27 am

    Keep it up Tamblyn, you are in the mix and doing fine. Take no notice of me, if you are reading, and if you are not, thank you for allowing me the opportunity of acting as if you are Amber Tamblyn, alliterative appellation, poet-actress-blogger, being as us, fantasying goddesses and gods, designate an epithet for U.S. in Letters, Vartis the main.

    I wouldn’t say we were banned though, Amber, not really: more our IP’s had their posting rights blocked and surreptitiously removed. Silenced, together, in the same event, the same planned operation in which ‘we’ three independent individuals, who have only met online, as psychic entities, got iced by one person’s whim.

    We had instigated a lot of chat.

    Normally in this situation, people who encourage others to engage and who contribute to a lively community, ascending, gaining bouyancy and very, very healthy, in the respect of ideas being exchanged between passionate, committed and inoffensive individuals who let our Letters do the talking – are cherished by the moderate forces wanting only the cool LP: but for which we were treated appallingly, by one young guy, who is very unpopular.

    One day, like you, we were in the mix, with our friends and colleagues, minding our own business, all pretty much having a great time – and the next, we cannot post. And so we came here to carry on rehearsing our shtick, bashing stock-in-trade cliches shoddier scholars of the ancient vartis art game of questioning what, when, why, how, where and who – contribute as their tune flowing for inward membership rolls, of free exchanging people, seeking only happiness and understanding – but who wither to silent the membership as a whole, because not very interesting people anyway, per se: all changes utterly, into a horrendous bore.

    ~

    No, no, we were not ‘banned’ Amber Tamblyn, actress at it there, because this suggests some aggro was in play, on our part, as the quad of random posters singled out to be made an example of, because we were US. And from us, Amber, a triumvirate had their posting rights removed simultaneously, on the first of September, our very own 9/1, Amber.

    It was a beautiful day: warm late summer, clear blue sky – when it occurred: in a well planned, premeditated, co-ordinated and tragic-poetic atrocity engineered by vartis name.

    All changed, was changed utterly, as some terrible foetry came into play, when the true, genuine centres of poetic gravity shuffled – were shoved – off stage, silently by The Poetry Assassin, asking vart is moi words, ordinance ordered toward?

    A singular bore – moi? GBH?

    A rising tide lifts all boats. Cordle, Brady and Woodman, were three individual rising tiders, who posted inoffensively, and yet somehow were cast as posters who could be disappeared to salve the ego of a blog tyrant administrating their gulag they may very well be sacked from, for silencing it to the laughing stock it’s become, since the people who made it what it was when it was someplace where exciting debate occurred – became silent there and made scharriet, Here it is: honesty.

    Why exactly this travesty happened: apart from jealousy and the general absence of any real poetic talent on the part of vartis the main – we can only guess; speculate, ‘fold spindle and mutilate’ as the zapper has it in his classic ‘What You Is’ concept LP.

    There are suspicions. Green eyes with visions of thumbs up poetry, installing a one person executive nobhole community vibe, via a hobnailed flarf technology so woefully rigged, Art v, freedom’s red letter day is birthing

    “The horse that comes from the road.
    The rider, the birds that range
    From cloud to tumbling cloud,
    Minute by minute we change;”

    alliterative Amber Tamblyn,

    “Hearts with one purpose alone
    Whom summer and winter seem
    Enchanted to a stone
    To trouble the living stream”

    Intellectual atrocity, vartis outrage, our 9/1 moment
    poetically, as the US who aint U and American

    but an ‘other’ us, lo-keen them who aint contributing
    as much CO 2: gas cash plastic black gold beneath

    desert blown lands – our minds blown bland,
    sanitized by the united states of right again about it all,

    kicking yo ass. Fanny collapsed on the floor, squashed

    in a lift shaft,collapsed right beneath our eyes, nine one

    september: the day one’s everything in poetry changed
    for me; of monumental importance to the non U.S,

    who’s mined above the still, fickle coated trills of faces
    booking us in, to their world 9/1 friend – i Thing Vartis

    you too, bono saints John Dave Hewson, Paul Evans,

    Johnnie Mac, Leno vat Sir: illusionary host,

    who is only now gonna play again

    “A horse-hoof slid on the brim,
    And a horse plashing within it;
    The long-legged moor-hens dive,
    And hens to moor-cocks call;
    Minute by minute we live:
    The stone’s in the midst of all”?

    ..who’s gonna rock from Woolton
    to Tupelo; roll in the tangerine skies,

    sell a phone-paper in yellow and blue,
    plume art, tu-wit tu-wooing beyond what is,
    knowing

    “Polite meaningless words,
    And think before I am done
    Of a mocking tale or a gibe
    To please a companion
    Around the fire at the night club,
    Being certain that they and I
    But lived where motley is worn:
    All change, change utterly:
    As our terrible beauty was born”

    in the skies over Woolton – a plusher
    suburb than Walton, McCartney’s

    manor of birth: Speke where Sir Paul

    lived, in Ardwick Roadnot Menlove Avenue

    where saint John learned, listened

    to the hidden route

    blues, skiffle, smuggled in on ships, planes

    into us low-down, beneath you knighted

    states of being mined wide open

    by a poetry assassin, who art is whatsiguy

    the forgettable fella, moi vartis the main.

    Kabul, Aghamore, Achill, Swirl Above the Sod

    Desmond $words