The Drill Press

publishers aiming to get in your head: We publish books in paperback and and also as e-books, though we have not yet decided on an e-book format other than pdf. Our approach is through print on demand, given that the 19th century model for publishing houses printing books on paper pimped by semiliterate agents with their heads up their asses is antiquated and doomed. We seek writers who understand the process of writing, conscious of their words and sentences and paragraphs and why they should come together in a given form. Literate and literary writers outside the norm of genre-slavish zombies to a moribund culture. We eschew the whores who don't have any idea of literary history or literary roots, without past or experience or new viewpoint. If one must flop on one's back to open one's legs, at least do it with some integrity, ingenuity, experimental fervor and sense of adventure. Try something new. Otherwise we aren't interested in your stuff. NO GENRE. (Note: we respect prostitutes who serve with integrity and distinction, whether it be writing or just plain old sex.); We intend our catalog to grow as books are published and remain in print. We're looking for original work that transcends the bounds of 19th century standards set by the major houses and will only publish when we find writing that meets our standards.; Our books will be available from online retailers like Amazon and Barnes and Noble, and our ebooks will remain available at ebookmall.com. They might be also be available at some independent bookstores and they can be ordered by booksellers from Ingram.; Meanwhile, we are reading other interesting work. Since we have several books in the pipeline now, we are closed until early next year. However, we will continue to actively seek submissions that are not crassly commerical bilge. Work with a purpose beyond the counterfeit notion of unengaged entertainment best served by the dual tediums television and film which have converged to the point they are largely interchangeable. We suggest reading the few paragraphs under submissions regarding books.

Now available:: The Place of the Yellow Woodpecker by Hugh Fox; Like Charles Ives, like Herman Melville, Hugh Fox is an American original. There is no one else writing like him today.; —RICHARD MORRIS, Achilles in the Quantum Universe: the Definitive History of Infinity; Go directly to The Drill Press Catalog; available from Amazon.com

A Broca Literária: Saudanções, internauta.; A partir de novembro, a Drill Press concede espaço para autores e leitores da lingua portuguesa com sua nova revista digital "A Broca Literária". Serão quatro trabalhos de prosa expostos mensalmente seguindo linhas similares às adotadas pela editora em suas outras revistas. Publicaremos crônicas, artigos, estórias curtas, romances de ficção e não-ficção, tudo em lingua portuguesa. Queremos textos originais, criativos, que instiguem a reflexão no leitor, que lhe agucem o espírito crítico sem comprometer-lhe a doçura e a expontaneidade, que matem sua sede de arte, talento e verdade.; Produções óbvias como tantas que transbordam na rede escondendo trabalhos valiosos são dispensáveis para nós, mesmo que bem apresentadas. Nossos lemas são criatividade, originalidade, qualidade e ousadia. A "Broca" não teme novidades. Não ostenta barreiras quanto à temática apresentada. O importante é que se respeite essas quatro prerrogativas.; Você, leitor e autor da língua portuguesa, agora tem um espaço só seu.; Para saber mais sobre a proposta da Broca ou sobre como ser um de nossos autores, acesse a revista.; A Broca Literária

We're new, we're vicious and we're hungry.: We seek a few good readers. Terrestrial intelligences seeking pleasure in engaging the brain, eschewing the standard television-aping pap presented by the major houses as literature. Readers relishing the English language, prose that realizes its potential, and tales that exploit the marvels of reality wherever it is found.; We seek a few good writers. Authors renouncing cliché with tales outside the mainstream, explicit in setting and detail to transport the reader, trusting rather than bludgeoning the reader. Creators of convincing creatures in unique settings.; You can eat off our prose.

Manifesto In Five Easy Movements: This work simultaneously appeared on the computers of our three founding editors as they made plans to start this publishing house. Investigation revealed slight variations in text which over time merged into this version; under the properties were three different comments, though the title and author were as given. One comment stated CHANCE: Computer enHANced, another CHANCE: Computer Hosted AlieN intelligenCE. In the third a longer description: A work by silicon life forms created by information and inhabiting the web. Later one of us got an email with no address simply stating Collective intelligence from bits to words.; Click To Read the Full Manifesto

The Big Stupid Review
Injustice for All: By D. E. Fredd; Judge Judy called me an asshole. Of course, it didn’t come out that way when they aired the episode. Bo Felton taped the show, and it has her using “idiot,” but you can see her lips saying “asshole.” The producers did some fancy editing. Even the rent-a-cop, what’s his face, Bird or Bert, who keeps order, looked surprised when she yelled that at me. more...
The Polysyllogistic Curse: By Gary J. Shipley; Reginald Woolly is searching for a universal algorithm for the detection of clarity, so that it might be clear whether some collection of beans/seed/wheat x is clearly a heap or not, thus enabling him to rid his toolbox of those pesky, embarrassed silences and ‘don’t knows,’ leaving him with a ‘yes’ and a ‘no’ and nothing more. He wants and needs (and has already started) to make the move from infallibility to omniscience. He had spent years wasting his time with nihilism, starting off local, but turning global within hours. more...
Ghost Dance: By Connor Caddigan; She checks her watch. Almost time. She flicks the smoldering butt out the window and slides the pistol into her purse. For a moment she stands in the parking lot, breathes the city air poisoned by the blast furnaces of the nearby mill. A flock of ugly blackbirds, common grackles, slide feverishly between the telephone lines and drop their heavy white payloads on the hood of her car before disappearing into the yellow sky. With fury and revulsion she stares after them but stops herself from taking aim and firing. more...
How It's Done: By Anjoli Roy; I thought of the handy green safety pamphlet that I had been clutching like a rosary on the plane ride from California. Along with a few brochures with bright, full color pictures of the smiling faces of South Africa’s new democracy, the green pamphlet was supposed to prepare me for the seven weeks I’d be spending in Cape Town, living with a host family. The pamphlet hadn’t mentioned anything about a nightlife. In fact, somewhere on the list between “Don’t wear sweatshirts with American universities written on them” and “Keep your voice down in public; American accents attract thieves,” I thought I remembered reading a tip that cautioned against going outside at night, ever. Was I a fool to go out at all, let alone on my first night? more...
Two in a Van: By Pavlo Kravchenko; I feel no cold, only the wind. The wind is on my face, in my face, but it is still. I am the one that blows. I am made of steel, plastic and glass, and I slice the wind like a knife. more...

Journal Of Precognitive Memories
Maurice Stoker quasireviews The Vicious Circulation of Dr. Catastrophe: A Polemical Ensemble by Kane X. Faucher: By Maurice Stoker. Once again I am torn from my fairyland of gleet to review for the loutish Drill Press. On this occassion none other than Pig Bodine himself, wearing U. S. Navy enlisted dress blues (gabardine, not the issue thick wool cracker jack outfit) with insignia of BM2 and tar flap collar adorned with the doctoral regalia colors of his economics PhD lined in the glorious hues of his third rate university (or maybe just some afterthought from hell), an SP armband affixed to his right upper arm. How this lunatic escaped his asylum is anyone's guess, but he shows up and pulls me from the gloryhole in the Yokosuka O Club after whacking with his billy club a couple ithyphallic knot-hole protrusions, lovely boles both, to which I was in alternate attendence. Unceremoniously handcuffed, no less, and instead of a brutal sexual assault locked into a hotel room with a book (The Vicious Circulation of Dr. Catastrophe: A Polemical Ensemble by one Kane X. Faucher), a pad of cheap yellow paper and a handful of ecru wooden number two pencils with blunt writing leads. more...
Boozer Allan Hamilton Justifies the Tea Party: By Boozer Allan Hamilton. I have held back from tossing into the ring my two cents on the matter of BP and the gushing well in the Gulf of Mexico, but I can no longer hold my piece. Part of my reason to hold back is I have not wanted to demonstrate that Dick Armey, Rand Paul, Sarah Palin, Michele Bachmann, Sharron Angle, Mike Lee, Joe Barton and other members of Tea Party are correct in the approach to this problem.; Firstly of all, BP ought not to be paying one red cent to anyone for anything. Not for loss of life, not for damage on the coast or waters, not for any parts of it. Period. In fact, they ought not be attempting to stop the well gushing; after all, the well will run out of oil in some time. more...
Maurice Stoker on Tom Bradley's Even the Dog Won't Touch Me: By Maurice Stoker. I'm leading a tour of fellow literary professionals. Writers, editors, publishers, and agents. Lots of agents. A tour for a clutch of charities. A service tour of the glory holes of Europe. Western Europe. We do the US and Canada later in the year.; It seems that with Cheney and Bush Jr. having memoirs surreptitiously penned and to be published in the near future, they are both going to be with us on the US leg. I can't wait to see the Secret Service agents on their knees beside the former President and his Vice chowing down on anonymous wiener dogs protruding from holes in stark bathroom walls. Although I have been informed that SS will require all anonymous participants submit to short arm inspection and penile toivel, probably laving away the tasty smegma from around those few remaining lovely foreskins. more...
Presidential Politics in the Year of the Toad: By Boozer Allan Hamilton Ph.D.. Not BAH's intention, and in fact against policy within confines of this seldom-read online rag and its so-called publishers, to extol political candidates. But in approaching farce of ostentatious display of ceremonially choosing President of US from cloned cluster of group-thinking insiders, a particularly creepy lot of mental midgets vetted by corporate overlords for presentation to voters emerges. Ought be reconsidered carefully before pulling levers, pushing buttons or marking Xs as mainstream candidates represent finalization of imperial power. Right-thinking voters ought look to fringe candidates, those already marginalized by corporate media in grip of holy saintliness of US-British-Israeli axis of evil. more...
The Second Annual Howard Littlefield Award for Putting the Con in Economics Awarded to Boozer Allan Hamilton: By Pig Bodine, M.Sc., Ph.D., BM2, BEM, MAD, MDMA. For years I have been in awe of Allan Hamilton; an unappreciated genius laboring in the trenches. He presents papers at conferences to choruses of boos, Bronx cheers and profanity as if he were an academic version of Karen Findley. Of course, his theatricality is not the norm in the staid world of econometrics and economic forecasting, but his grasp of the fine points of semimartingales on tensor products of Hilbert and Banach manifolds as models for economic activity, home to nonlinear filters and predictors as the basis for his methods of building economic indicators and performing statistical inference on semimartingales, has put him decades, nay centuries ahead of his colleagues in predicting economic behavior. I use the word predict versus forecast because he predicts with the precision of one working in celestial mechanics. more...

Spooky Action At A Distance
The Rant of a Hypothetical Slave: By Pavel Kravchenko. So who is crazier, one who does not see the walls of his cell or the one who sees the walls but hears footsteps outside that are not there? What is more important, happiness or search? more...
Night of the Living Dead: The Party of Palin: By Jim Chaffee. Ever wonder why the scariest caricature of the living dead is a smiling Dick Cheney? Believe me, that is more than a freakish coincidence of genetics. more...
Fear of Merging: A Christmas Tale: By Jim Chaffee. I suppose a more apposite memory would be the six or seven inch, finger-thick, brown ascaris wriggling from the anus of a young Marine. Extend the memory to a vision from the Pink Eiga of Japanese film directed by someone like Mitsuru Meike with perhaps the lovely Rinako Hirasawa sucking the worm from the young man's butt-hole more...
Notes From a Season at the Center of the Universe: Cecil Taylor at the Take 3: By Robert Levin. In late 1962, Cecil lands a three-month, four-night-a-week gig at The Take 3, a coffee house on Bleecker Street. It's right next door to The Bitter End where Woody Allen had performed just weeks before. (Allen was second on the bill and I'd thrown him a quick couple of lines in the Village Voice column—something about how this new comic exploited his appearance to good advantage.) more...
Meaning and Almostness: By Jim Chaffee. Essence and existence. For certain believers in God and such, essence precedes existence. For some unbelievers, most famously Jean-Paul Sartre or Simone de Beauvoir, the statement is reversed. Neither of these notions is anything more than a repetition of the point they are attempting to drive home, however, and as far as existential dilemmas go, the God-no God question is at best meaningless and really a yawner. Besides which all the arguments end in begging.; Consider instead a chilling ontological-epistemological cocktail with the potential for profound existential hangover. more...
Kalari Payat: By Gitanjali Kolanad. The young lithe bodies with long muscles under dark skin glistening with oil and sweat crouch and kick and leap, taking inspiration from the movement of elephant, lion, horse, snake. The actions are low to the ground, curving, punctuated by sudden high twirling jumps, just like the Malayalam script, all curves interrupted only rarely by a straight line. more...
Ethnic Narcissism and Infertility in Japan: By Tom Bradley. I teach conversational skills to freshman dentistry majors in the Japanese "imperial university" where they used to vivisect our bomber pilots and serve their livers raw at festive banquets.; Ever since I first reluctantly mounted the bamboo podium, back in the days when this was the richest country in the world, my campus has been under occupation by platoons of boys who call themselves "cheerleaders." Seeming to grow like bunions out of the karate and judo teams, they’re too bristly to get laid, so they scream and march a lot, and flail their arms around. They’re seminarians of a sort, practicing to be full-blown Hirohito worshipers like those I saw officiating at the Feast of the Transfiguration in A-Bomb Park. more...
Noise in the Machine: The Homogeneous Chaos Blues: By Jim Chaffee. Gilbert Ryle nailed Cartesian dualism by killing the ghost in the machine. Now someone named Carl Zimmer wants to use noise in the machine to kill a straw man standing in for genetic determinism. This mushy-headed blather arises as an attempt to simulate science-talk to people inured to comic book encapsulation of the most complex ideas. Who knows what the author intended to convey, or why, but the premise demands deconstruction like Lon Cheney Junior demanded a dew claw. more...
Name of a Flower: By Sonia Ramos Rossi. The bar in Madrid's gay area was full of smoke and young, pretty lesbians dancing salsa with each other, petite and sun-tanned. I pulled up a high stool at the counter, ordered a Martini and had a look around. To my right a tall, slim, middle aged lady was drinking Baileys on ice, chatting with the bar staff. She looked a little out of place there, I mean she was neither a young pretty lesbian, nor one of the older type of 'guy that understands' who tend to hang out in this place. She did fit another type who normally go there, though; she was a transsexual. more...
Breakable Bayonets, Made in China: By Tom Bradley. Try to get a typical Red Chinese lumpen-prole to sit down with you and share a few minutes of pleasantly goose-bumped thermonuclear war paranoia. He’ll first look puzzled, then think about it for half a second. And then he’ll say there are so many of his people around that lots of them are bound to survive even the biggest holocaust Bush can provoke. So, there’s no need to fret. And his lack of a silly grin when he says this cannot be ascribed to the legendary inscrutability of the yellow face. He’s not joking. more...
Sunny Tells Me a Story: By Robert Levin. We're in my living room, taking a break on the second day of an interview I'm doing with him for Jazz & Pop—and smoking the amazing bush he's always holding—when Sunny says, "Bobby, I never told you this, but for a while there were people trying to kill me." more...
Free Jazz: The Jazz Revolution of the '60s: By Robert Levin. Four musicians (a saxophonist, trumpeter, bassist and drummer) abruptly began to play - with an apoplectic intensity and at a bone-rattling volume - four simultaneous solos that had no perceptible shared references or point of departure. Even unto themselves the solos, to the extent that they could be isolated as such in the density of sound that was being produced, were without any fixed melodic or rhythmic structure. Consisting, by turns, of short, jagged bursts and long meandering lines unmindful of bar divisions and chorus measures they were, moreover, laced with squeaks, squeals, bleats and strident honks. A number ended and another began - or was it the same one again? How were you to tell? No. No way this madness could possibly have a method. more...