Tag Archives: Dorothy Parker

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #7, In Pictures

We’d like to stir a big bubbling cauldron of gratitude for everyone who helped make Reading #7 such a bewitching evening: Kailey, Mary, Shawn, Darley, Dorothy, Ilana, Ron and Luis for performing your flappy lits; Pacific Standard for continuing to be the best bar in all of New York to host a reading; Alibi Jones for your scintillating singing & lovely photography; and all you gorgeous cats & kittens who came down to get spellbound. Let’s do this again, say, around the next Solstice…

(photos by Alibi Jones)

IMG_2463

Kailey Tedesco reads some of her magical poetry, including “How Often We Confuse Ovens for Rabbit Holes”

IMG_2472

Mary Breaden keeps the witchy vibe alive with some spooky short fiction

IMG_2478

Shawn Frazier gets surreal performing a dreamy new tale Continue reading FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #7, In Pictures

Advertisements

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #7 / YEAR TWO Flight Party

We’re gonna dance like centipedes on tumbleweeds as we celebrate the flight of our YEAR TWO print anthology with our 7th reading on Wednesday, May 25th from 7 – 9 PM at Pacific Standard (82 Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn).

Starring MARY BREADENSHAWN FRAZIERLUIS GALINDOALIBI JONESRON KOLMILANA MASADDARLEY STEWARTKAILEY TEDESCO, and the late DOROTHY PARKER.

(Here’s the facebook event page.)

FHReading7Poster

“FLAPPERHOUSE: A Love Song” – Poetry by the late Dorothy Parker

THERE’S VERY LITTLE LIT TODAY
that doesn’t make me grouse ;
the only zine I wish would stay
around is FLAPPERHOUSE

It’s weird and sexy, dark and funny,
free of sanctimony,
they pay their writers with real money,
not that “exposure” baloney.

If you’d like to show support, don’t wait–
act now and make it happen!
Visit FLAPPERHOUSE . com / DONATE
and help FLAPPERHOUSE keep flappin’

All Tongues Her Prowess Herald

Dorothy Parker’s poem “The Flapper” has sometimes been referred to as “Flappers: A Hate Song,” although we at FLAPPERHOUSE like to tell ourselves that Ms. Parker, whom we think was the greatest, had more of a love-hate thing for Flappers, especially since she was awfully flappy herself.

GhoulieDottieThe Playful flapper here we see,
The fairest of the fair.
She’s not what Grandma used to be, —
You might say, au contraire.
Her girlish ways may make a stir,
Her manners cause a scene,
But there is no more harm in her
Than in a submarine.

She nightly knocks for many a goal
The usual dancing men.
Her speed is great, but her control
Is something else again.
All spotlights focus on her pranks.
All tongues her prowess herald.
For which she well may render thanks
To God and Scott Fitzgerald.

Her golden rule is plain enough –
Just get them young and treat them
Rough.

Welcome To The FLAPPERHOUSE

Drum Tissue Outburst? Throbbing Dust Generation!

Dorothy Parker, Jorge Luis Borges, and HP Lovecraft walk into a speakeasy. Louis Armstrong sings “St. James Infirmary Blues” over a rusty phonograph. Behind the bar, Salvador Dalí pours absinthe into a hubcap full of peanut butter and raw macaroni, and he stirs the mixture with the antler of a live moose.

“Four martinis, Sally,” says Parker. “Plus whatever the boys want.”

Borges excuses himself to the basement in search of the restroom. He must’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere because before long he’s lost himself in an infinite labyrinth full of shelves with mirror-spined books. He starts to imagine what stories these books contain, and how he might review them.

Back upstairs, Josephine Baker dances in sensual ecstasy on Fritz Lang’s table while he peeks at her sideways through his monocle and pretends he’s not aroused. René Magritte paints himself painting them both through a castle’s window. Apples hover before their faces.

The ghost of Franz Kafka’s in a corner, leaning sharply against the wall.  Lovecraft spots him and approaches, timid yet determined, as if helpless to confront his most horrifying fear. ”What’s it like?” Lovecraft asks, referring to death. Kafka’s ghost replies only with facial expressions: First with what seems like laughter, then a grimace like he might cry instead, and finally he shakes his head to say no, I really shouldn’t tell you, no. Lovecraft sits and stares at the floor for a while.

We are neither living nor dead!” shouts TS Eliot, raising a glass of gin. “And we know nothing, looking into the heart of light, the silence!

Parker’s sipping her second drink when she finally notices the ants crawling from the stem of her martini glass and onto her hand. Fucking Dalí, she thinks, as she swats and squashes as many bugs as she can. Kafka’s ghost can hear their screams.

She holds her cameraphone in front of her face: bemused, rankled, heartsick, yet almost drunk enough to be tickled by it all. Once she’s got enough good madness framed in the background, she sips, clicks a picture, and posts it to Instagram, caption, “Just another night at the Flapperhouse… #thirsty”