I think sometimes I know too many secrets. That they will overrun me one day and crowd out everything else until there is nothing left but the echoing light and thunder of all these secrets leaving me paralyzed with no words –

 

---

 

With secrets, words are forbidden.

 

---

 

I think this is how writers are made. People who are bound by secrets so long one day in place of silence something new is born, something made up, something fiction, anything, everything, just to fill that void of non-sound.

 

---

 

Writers tell the truth through lies.

How messed up is that?

 

---

 

where the art work comes from:
:::the society of historical curiosities:::

 

 

 

It is the return of that dreaded day in May. And since I love this a lot I am bringing it back. Yay!

Berlin is going Banksy. Yay!

:::going banksy:::

So I have —

Some Twitter stalker going all balls out to hit me. This happens. The stalker thing. I appear to be stalker candy.

Sometimes I wonder if I should even be out in the world, but, fuck it, I want to live my life.

It generally happens because someone makes up in his or her mind what I am supposed to be. And then splat, they meet me, and I’m not it. Ahhh! She isn’t my imagined girl on the unicorn! Ahhhh!

 

---

 

Look I’m not a girl on a unicorn. And a very smart friend once told me, Look, you owe people who bought the book one thing and one thing only: The book. And you don’t have to be anything more or less than that. The end.

This fucker didn’t even buy the book. He just chased me around on Twitter. His intro was him telling me how amusing he found the Boston Marathon Bombing and West, Texas explosions. And since I did not find either amusing, it went downhill from there.

 

---

 

But he kept following me.

 

---

 

When I posted, Had anyone read the book who could give it a review? He said, “So, did I want HIM to give it a review”?

It was a threat.

I said I’d prefer people who read the book gave it reviews. And then he got more freaky and I blocked him.

 

---

 

He reviewed the book on Amazon. Just like he promised to do if I wasn’t nicer to him. A book he never read.

And he started a WordPress blog titled MaxAdamsAndTwitter. And pasted my photo on it and went to town with posts — with a link off his Amazon “review.”

 

---

 

WordPress took the blog down. Seeing as it was wearing my name and was draped in my photos and that’s kind of fucked up.

Amazon, however, is a little kinder and friskier with stalkers.

 

---

 

Amazon was the link out to the Max Adams Stalker Blog, see. But no worries. First, Amazon couldn’t find the one 1 star review on the book’s Amazon page even with an ISBN and link to the review. I know, that was the first email a week or so later after I asked for help.

(No worries, Amazon, I will send them to you again.)

Then, the review that flat out says “I didn’t read the book I just hate and want to fuck with the author” and links to a WordPress blog wearing the author’s name and photo attacking the author, well, no worries. That doesn’t violate Amazon terms of service. Because I guess being a conduit to personal and professional attacks on authors on the internet is no biggy, Amazon?

For fuck’s sake, Amazon, what are your terms of service?

Just curious.

 

---

 

I have to go call my lawyers now to find out what it means when an online business is actively operating as a conduit for personal and professional stalker attacks on female individuals through the internet. I asked for help more than once from you guys.

Love and Kisses,

Your Fuck You Amazon Adams Girl

---

 

PS: Hey, I posted your photo up there, you won’t mind right? You didn’t mind linking out to a stalker who was posting my photos, so I figured it would not bother you. Smooches!

 

 

I forgot how funny this is, it is from Raincoaster, circa August 12, 2007:

max adams: the Pinkertons dossier

As promised, here is max‘s biography. Consider biographization to be a meme if you enjoy such things.

Warning: your mileage may vary. We assume no liability. No warranty implied. Before beginning this or any exercise plan, consult your physician. Not intended as a replacement for the advice of a competent professional.

Which, if I’d had access to, would probably have resulted in something a lot less interesting.

max adams: the Pinkertons dossier

Editor’s note: In relating the circumstances which have led to my confinement within this refuge for the demented, I am aware that my present position will create a natural doubt of the authenticity of my narrative. It is an unfortunate fact that the bulk of humanity is too limited in its mental vision to weigh with patience and intelligence those isolated phenomena, seen and felt only by a psychologically sensitive few, which lie outside its common experience. Men of broader intellect know that there is no sharp distinction betwixt the real and the unreal; that all things appear as they do only be virtue of the delicate individual physical and mental media through which we are made conscious of them; but the prosaic materialism of the majority condemns as madness the flashes of supersight which penetrate the common veil of obvious empiricism.

max adams is such a phenomenon.

In creating this dossier we have been in constant contact with our offices in St. Petersburg, Istanbul, Silverlake, Ponape, Zurich, Area 51, Abu Simbel, Great Zimbabwe, and of course, Head-Smashed-In-Buffalo-Jump. Although facts are few, and expensively won, we have been able to assemble the following biographical sketch.

max adams is the laboratory-created daughter of the frozen sperm of Errol Flynn and pioneering biologist Nicolette Tesla (granddaughter of the famous physicist) who, deprived by the relentless progress of Glasnost of a ready supply of involuntary subjects, was forced to experiment upon herself.

Succeeding beyond her wildest dreams, she gave birth to max, whom she named Erriol in an epidural trance, during which she recited the entirety of The Tempest, with different voices and everything, pausing only to berate the attending doula for her hopelessly provincial dress sense.

max was raised in Tesla‘s mountain fortress to the age of four, when she was taken away by agents of the state to undertake the gruelling process of being schooled for the Olympic ice dancing team.

During a particularly contentious international competition in Bakersfield, California, max defected to the West and since that time has denied all knowledge of the former European Ice Dancing Championship team of Erriol Tesla and Sergey Brin.

She currently lives a quiet life as a night custodian and DJ at Slim Jim’s Crematorium and Rib House hidden deep in the bowels of the the new CAA headquarters, while maintaining a small scientific consulting practice with an exclusive clientele including MIT’s jet propulsion laboratory, Chicago’s Slam Poetry Championship, and Burger King.

~end~

Where that hilarity comes from: The Raincoaster, where else?
It is a bit in conflict with the Madame Slotsky biography but what can you do?