A Review of Jonathan Baumbach's YOU or the Invention of Memory By Milo Stevens

When I first got my copy of Jonathan Baumbach’s latest book YOU or the Invention of Memory I looked at Broad Set Collective member Kiley “Keeks” Rummler and told her that there are boobs on the cover and asked her if I could/should write about that in my review. Her and our fearless leader Pete said in unison: “yes, please do”. With that in mind I read Baumbach’s post-modern romp through the depressing minefield of the modern relationship. 2/3s of the novel is Baumbach writing directly to YOU the reader. This would be cool if I were whom he was talking to, but to be honest this 22 year old is not secure enough in his gender to pretend to be a middle aged woman who had an affair with this writer. After YOU get over the initial confusion the narrative disjointedly starts running through what feels like a letter between lovers while you try and keep up.

            The second option for the title though, is really where the novel does the things that I like. Personally, I couldn’t care less about how confusing relationships are for people but the invention of memory is the coolest part of this book. Remember that 1/3 of the book I haven’t addressed yet? Well, it tells the story from the woman’s side. While it is a more coherent section, there are a lot of parts that still do not add up from your side and Baumbach’s examination of memory is what makes this book for me.

            YOU is written for people that are interested in the modern relationship (and all the betrayals and confused feelings that they bring) and for people interested in a new kind of storytelling. If you cannot handle or do not like any of those things, this book is not for you. If, however, you want a challenging book that will explore the way that people have gotten together in a way that Jodi Picoult doesn’t write then you will truly enjoy this book.

Milo Stevens Photography

Buy YOU on Amazon

Jonathan Baumbach

None of the reviews could have been possible without Lauren Cerand  and viewers like YOU.

Mickey Hess

Mickey Hess is a writer and hip hop scholar. His book Big Wheel at the Cracker Factory is out now. 

His new book American Hip Hop: A Regional Guide, will be out soon. 

After that, who knows

Nnamdi G. Osuagwu

Nnamdi G. Osuagwu is the founder of Ice Cream Melts, LLC. He is responsible for the strategic direction of the company and handles all day to day operations.

Nnamdi has been writing as a hobby since childhood and in 2007 completed his first book, Ice Cream Melts. In addition to writing, Nnamdi has taken up film and embarked on capturing Ice Cream Melts stories from real life people through street interviews. Most recently, Nnamdi combined his passion for literature and film to produce the company’s firsteBookumentary™ and second book, A Souvenir For My Mom: First Hand Accounts From The 2009 US Presidential Inauguration.

Nnamdi holds a Bachelors of Science degree from Temple University with a major in Computer Science.

Below is a short poem from Nnamdi. Take some time and give this warm hearted gentlemen some feedback.

The Ring

There once was a ring

Which embraced the finger

of a young lady

who showed the ring to all

friends were in marvel

Envious were some

others in shock

defining true love

in relation to the ring

frowned on their mates

for not presenting them

with a such a ring

one friend, who wore no ring

was happy for her friend

and happy with her mate

the three would often laugh

and sit together

years past and the young

turned old in age

As the three laughed

yet again as they once did

the question arose

what ever happened to that beautiful ring

with a sly smirk

the old lady said

I pawned it years ago

the three then laughed

and watched the sunset

www.IceCreamMelts.com

http://www.Jan20th.com

Peter Richter poem #1

This Anecdote is Anal Wind, so Fatty Said “The Skinny is Grim.”

Oliver Jostz 

sat unwrapping 

appendages on Christmas,

caught mucus basin strep 

throat in a walk-in 

Refrigerator,

tossed Beth down Siberia 

in a saucer sled, 

ushered snowmen to the 

sewers.

Got banana lipped 

nervous, 

slept sexed in a crane 

hull, 

felt reduced to a 

thunderhead,

cuddled off the ocean 

ridge.

Set soil bungalows in 

Poughkeepsie NY,

rebuilt the mailbox,

retrained the dog,

bought the tenor voice 

and shoes,

managed the sale.

All along he kept safe 

the ants and one leaf 

and they replied on moon 

dust, tapping a dot 

trail into their 

tunnels.

Fictionaut.com

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AND visit our friend Lauren Cerand's website to learn about anything cool happening in New York. 

Story for Opium's contest

This is a 250 word story for Opium's book mark contest... any feed back would help me out before I submit it. Thanks guys!

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The Scavenger

I am a scavenger. I sit on the telephone wire, a ravenous vulture watching a man and a woman arguing across the street. The clouds remind me of ashy marshmallows I found in a fire pit yesterday. The woman starts shoving the man; he stumbles backwards. I am not sure if I feel bad for the man or not. I am a scavenger with emotions. The woman keeps saying, “That isn’t what happened.” I don’t know what they are fighting about but I want to know, so I perch on the wire for a while. I am a curious scavenger. I feel spiders webbing webs in between my legs. An hour goes by and the man and woman are still arguing; the woman is still pushing the man, and he keeps stumbling backwards closer to the pavement. A car is coming, driving quickly. I don’t think it can see the couple arguing. I feel anger towards the woman in defense of the man. I am a guardian scavenger. Finally, as the car is about to pass, the woman pushes the man harder than before; she doesn’t see the car. He falls backwards, head in front of the passenger-side tire and it pops as if it were a balloon being sat on. The woman gets spattered and looks shocked. She flees. The car slams on its brakes, realizes what happened and speeds away. I fly down to devour the remnants of the body. I am a hungry scavenger, tired of waiting.




- Glen

I wrote this in 3 minutes.

Today I will tell you that I have enjoyed your company for the past several months.

Tomorrow you will call me and ask me to return your clock as you are running late everywhere.

The day after tomorrow I will send you a package. Inside will be the smashed remnants of said clock. Do you remember when you said I was passive aggressive?

The day after the day after tomorrow you will call the police because someone driving my car has been sitting outside your house listening to Marvin Gaye, the music we used to make love to. I will assure the police that such events are a coincidence.

Four days from today I will call an escort service and solicit a crying shoulder who I will not have any sort of physical relationship with, I will finish the evening by taking her to an all night diner and sneaking out a bathroom window to avoid paying her or the check from the eggs I purchased.

The day after that you will call me and say "Jeff, I'm so sorry, but there's somebody else."

On that same day I will yell "You can't do this, I cared so deeply, kissed so lovingly, and hugged so efficiently."

During our conversation you will say, "what does efficiency have to do with love?"

I will say "everything".

You will hang up.

I will drink a bottle of scotch and hang around a park at night hoping to kill a drifter to satisfy my capacity for anger. I will be unsuccessful.

I will get a good job.

I will move on.

I will get married and forget about the strange things I did the week following the dissolution of our love. I will dedicate myself to the church, to my family, and to a collection of stamps (because it seems to be the right thing to collect at the age I am becoming).

You will be gone.

Read me!

So I've finished my first [serious] manuscript. Of course, I would love to post it here and get some feedback or thoughts - but it is way to long for a post, obviously.

So here's the deal... if you want to read it and give me some feedback/thoughts/whatever. Email me and I'll send you a copy. --> glenbinger(at)gmail(dot)com

Or if you don't want to and just want to say 'i hate you' you can do that, too. Either way, I'm lonely...

- Glen

4 Styles - Kiley Rummler

This was an assingment I had to do for my Advanced Prose Style class. Each paragraph had to be in the a style of a different author. At the end of each paragraph is the author I'm trying imitate. This is what I came up with:


1. Ellen’s dry hands clenched around the end of the wooden pole. She mechanically pushed the stringy haired mop back and forth. Her eyes, the color of cold steel, stared blankly off into space as if she were in deep thought. However, her nose-delicate and upturned like a ski jump-was at attention. She tried with every ounce of herself to ignore the tangy smell of the bleach. It always reminded her of her childhood, but she never knew why. (Lorrie Moore)


2. Jackie is extremely pleased with herself and doesn’t care who sees her so happy. Her bark-brown hair is bouncing along in beat with her footsteps. Wood chips get stuck in her white, metal buckled sandals but she doesn’t notice. The jungle gym is behind her, looking not as menacing as before. “I crossed the monkey bars. All. By. My. Self,” she said. Dylan didn’t look up at her. Instead, he waited for her to turn around, then stuck out his four year old tongue. It was stained a bright red from the fruit punch they had at snack time. (Tao Lin)


3. He was coming but I didn’t know when he’d be here. Panicky, I made the bed and casually tried to toss all my pillows on it; the bed still looked abused and gave me a bad feeling. Almost too violently, I shook my head, doing that juvenile thing of trying to get bad memories or thoughts out of there, like that even worked, it just gave me a headache. There was a painful knock at the door, “come in,” I choked. (Jack Kerouac)


4. I’m tired but have been awake for over an hour. The sleep is still stuck in the tiny corners of my eyes. I’m trying to finish homework but instead watch the mute television with no real pleasure. I turned the sound off to make it easier to do work, but I stare at it trying to figure out what these “actors” are saying. They’re just real people, picked to live in a real house. I give in and stretch my arm across my desk to turn the volume up. Just in time to hear a commercial about the new show, A Rapper Should Go To Jail But Instead Gets An MTV Show. This rapper is going to try to save the lives of seven young men before he gets sentenced. They show him sitting in a boxy black leather chair in a solid white room. Out loud I say, “God, they just give shows to anyone these days”. In my head I plan to watch it because I don’t have class that night. (George Saunders)