Via the Design*Sponge blog:

Brooklyn artist John Welles Bartlett’s woodcuts and prints of mythical and extinct creatures make me happy. And I’m not really sure why. Reminiscent of childhood? Desire for the unknown? Wolfboy? Who’s to say? The folks over at Berdorf Goodman have taken note as they’ve given Bartlett the run of their windows until next month.

Thanks to Wiggle Worm for the heads up!

Book cover design virtuoso Jim Tierney redesigned four classic Jules Verne novels, not for some reissue campaign for a big time publisher, but for his senior project.

Jim employs all sorts of whimsical, rarely-used cover design methods like die cut half jackets, spin wheels and translucent film.

The best part about these covers is you need only glance at them to get a potent taste of the adventure that lies within.

The worst part about them is that they are one of a kind. Hey Penguin! Get off your ass and mass produce these.

Click over to Faceout Books to read a short interview with Jim about the process.

Thanks to Danny J for the heads up!

Our intrepid intern comes at us with a report from the burgeoning art capital of the world, Orlando, FL. Take it away, Janelle!

Good friend and Annalemma contributor Gianelle Gelpi held an art opening at Stardust on Saturday night.

Fans and friends came together to celebrate Gianelle’s first solo show.

I donned my newly dubbed “Montana” jacket in honor of the furry family.

Gianelle’s choice of medium ranged from rich, seductive oils to bright and yummy acrylics. The most beloved though were her drawings.

By the end of the night they were all $OLD! Cha-ching is a good thing indeed.

Gianelle’s style, influenced by World Mythology, has evolved into a kind of mystical optimism. Through the creatures of the Grand Family, she conveys a belief in the connectedness of all things alive and imagined. Their serenity may be ours as well.

I especially loved the lion. Just look at his eyes! Gorgeous. Someone else snatched it up before I got there. Boohoooo.

We are just bursting with pride. Gianelle owned Stardust. (And the dance floor a little later that night.) Expect to see more of her.

We are just bursting with pride. Gianelle owned Stardust. (And the dance floor a little later that night.) Expect to see more of her.

Happy Friday everyone. As a special present for making it to the end of the week, we give you the fruits of the HTMLGIANT “When Writers Get Off” contest. In retrospect, it may have been wise to choose a less confusing title to parody, but whatever, it makes for some good ol’ fashioned time wastin’ on a Friday afternoon. Thanks to everyone who submitted!

And now, Annalemma is proud to give you a work of classical literature that has been totally porn-i-fied. Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you…

Finnegan’s Wank

force that through the green fuse drove the wildebeest in rear of the long bus with high seatbacks for high school play, untucked oxford shirt, corduroys unsnapped, downzipped to match her plaid skirt split thigh-wide, knees pinked, still drives me to wankshire, memory slick with swells of youth, yea, I was still a boy back then, virginia’s son, unlicensed but with mansome fingers, guitar-licking at the loudhouse, labial mimetics of miss winnie who would whimper first, a chorus, huff-n-hew, then lift me with her muttonbrooch, the niceliest mouthing of fist with slurp hole, oh, imagine the sound, how I would soak the buttoned cotton clean through. learned to launder by eleven, so dear mother, sweet saintly mami, immaculate cleanser of marriott and sheraton, would not know nor touch the spraycrust from breath slide, wring and bell-tongued ball (like wool-white plunge for heaven’s serf) of the selfsame girl who’d heave jameson at the freshman formal, but not before geyswerk beneath cloth table. we told ourselves no one could see, yet when discovered otherwise saw no need for disgrace, groan with willful eyes, glouch before mirrors, windows, open doors, like this one now, upon the aerie annalemma. finn’s splooge is yours.

- jesusangelgarcia

Mastabatoom, mastabadtomm, when a mon merries his lute, he tips un a topping swank cheroot, giving the Paddybanners the military salute, from out the belfry of the cute, to send more heehaw hell’s flutes, comming nown from the asphalt to the concrete, from the human historic brute, schwants (schwrites) ischt tell the cock’s trootabout, to traverse same above statement by saxy luters, and the Beer and Belly and the Boot, in spite of all that science could boot, like to ants or emmets wondern upon a groot, very largely substituted taker of the tributes, for render and prender the doles and the tribute, when rodmen’s firstaiding hands had rescued, the prettiest pickles of unmatchemable mute, when an explosium of his distilleries deafadumped all his dry goods to his most favoured sinflute.

Saddenly now. On a second wreathing, a celt, unwishful as he felt, was pelted (in pelted thongs), lugging up and laiding down his livepelts (birthday pelts), a lad’s thing to elter, and boundaried round with a twobar tunnel belt, where the poules go and rum smelt, and yet smelt the highstinks aforefelt, erning his breadth to the swelt, and devious delts, a bright tauth bight shimmeryshaking for the welt, and candlestock melt.

- William Walsh

Finnegan sat in the corner, spent.  He was sad now.  The softest part was always the hardest part. He spit on the ground and looked around.  He grabbed a dirty towel and weakly cleaned himself.  A big fart let loose from his fat ass. The magazine he used was called Phoenix Park, and Finnegan made a note to himself to remember the title.  It was a keeper.

The bachelor’s apartment only had one room, other than the bathroom.  The only sink was in the bathroom.  Finnegan kept a hot plate on a table near the only door in the apartment.  He occasionally cooked grill cheeses on the hot plate.  He had never cleaned the hot plate.  He owned two dishes, and he would clean them in the shower at the same time he showered himself.  He owned one fork, and cleaned it with spit.

Through the dirty window, Finnegan spied a bird flying.  He coughed once and turned away from the window.  He lay back and stared up at the ceiling, scratching his belly.  He imagined the two Asian girls he saw at drycleaner earlier in the day.  They leaned over a sink, each washing a shirt.  One was tall like a tree. The other was squat and short, like a stone.  They were both beautiful.  They were both perfect.  Each time he jerked it thinking of them, he felt closer to them.  Every day he felt closer to them.

Finnegan waited to get hard again.  It wouldn’t be long.

- P. William Grimm

Head over to HTMLGIANT where the results for the “When Writers Get Off” contest have been announced. Congrats to Chris Killen for having the most depraved brain.

I know I said we were gonna take off for the break but it just felt wrong to leave you hanging out there in the wind like that. We need to stick together in this world, so we’re going to be keeping it chill here over the break instead of ceasing all communications.

Anyway:

I got my issues with The Rumpus. Sometimes they can be a little too NY and SF focused and can kinda forget that anything of artistic and literary merit is happening anywhere else in the country. And also, after some pretty admirable efforts on my part to do what little promotion I can with the small amount of credibility I have to promote Stephen Elliott’s book, I have yet to get that attention reciprocated onto me and my project. Wouldn’t kill them to link to some of the cool shit that happens here. Not that that’s why I dedicated all that time and money to pumping up Adderall Diaries. It’s a damn fine book by a damn fine writer, and I believe in both. Wouldn’t kill him to show a little appreciation over there is all. I’m just saying.

Whatever. The Rumpus is cool. I’m just airing some sour grapes. It’s kind of petty to be ripping on one of the few places on the internet for things of substance. And I’m starting to sound like the nerd who wasn’t invited to the party.

My favorite thing they got goin on nowadys is Pornographic Barn Owl. Simple, subtle, sublime. Often laugh-out-loud funny, sometimes sweetly sad, always hilariously honest. Imagine if Raymond Pettibon was way funnier and drew a weekly strip. I’m waiting for the collected works of Ian Huebert to come out. I will buy that shit.

Geez, I thought I was supposed to be keeping it chill…

Literary costumes are weird. Unless you hang out with a dedicated book crowd, chances are you’re going to be standing in the corner by yourself at the party, occasionally launching into 5 min+ speech explaining your costume to the sexy maid who was unfortunate enough to ask.

But maybe I’m wrong. Send pics of your literary costume I’ll post them and we’ll let the internet decide if they were effectively scary/funny. Best costume gets a free copy of Annalemma Issue Five!

Pic: The Inkwell

In case you haven’t been paying attention to my media barrage, I talked Stephen Elliott into coming to Orlando.

It’s required by city law that if you spend more than 24 hours in Orlando you are required to go wakeboarding.

Stephen reluctantly obliged.

He was a good sport and pretended to have a good time.

He even showed off a little bit for us.

You’re a good sport, Stephen.

I didn’t take any pics from the Stardust reading cause I was too busy stressing out and keeping the drunks at bay.We did, however, shoot some footage from the Stardust event and will be cutting it together in a little bit. Keep your peepers pealed for that.

This was from the next night. Stephen read for a fiction writing class at Urban Think.

It was way quieter and much fewer drunks.

Thanks Stephen!

Book and/or short story trailers are, by their nature, very weird things. Trying to convey a mood or feeling of a piece that does its best conveying in a completely different medium in a short amount of time is a recipe for clumsy and awkward “filmmaking”. AV Cub just came out with a pretty good one:

But most of them are really, really, ridiculously, embarrassingly bad:

Reason I bring this up is cause we’re gonna be posting some trailers of our own up here some time next week and I want to make this solemn promise to you, dear Annalemma disciple, that we will try our damnedest to make our trailers as interesting and non-embarrassing as possible. Keep your peepers pealed.

Thanks HTMLGIANT.

Surely you didn’t think we were done with business cards after the Kluge. The Mama’s boys hooked me up with bookbinder extrodinaire Monica Holtsclaw of Boombox Bindery to do some gilding for us. How off the sicktor chain is this? Pretty off the sicktor chain. It blows my mind that someone is doing this type of thing in my town. Thanks Monica!