Tag Archives: Ron Kolm

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #12 / Issue 12 Flight Party

fhreading12posterWe’re gonna flap our downhearted blues away on Wednesday, January 4, 2017 from 7 – 9 PM at Brooklyn’s Pacific Standard as we celebrate the flight of our 12th issue with our 12th reading!








& the late LEONARD COHEN


“Finnegan Joyce” – Fiction by Ron Kolm

James Joyce - Djuna Barnes, 1922
James Joyce – Djuna Barnes, 1922

From our Summer 2016 issue, “Finnegan Joyce” is Ron Kolm‘s funny & raunchy riff on the late great James Joyce.

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HELLO, HELLO, JAMES JOYCE HERE, but briefly, yes, the voice, yes, I know it doesn’t sound so very good, no, the voice does not fare well here in the dead zone — 0, and I used to be a tenor, such a beautiful tenor that they told me, more than once, yes, that I could have been a contender but don’t take my word for it, listen to the record, do they still have records?– it was a Finnegans Wake rap sort of thing, yes, as you can see I try to keep up — should have used more bass, a little sampling, be ok on the boombox then — but I’m pulling your leg, as if a shade could pull anything — because, now that I’m dead, I don’t have to protect the image I worked so hard to create — I’m finally free, I tell you — though I still rejoice at the number of academics who toil in its shadow — who till the field I manured so well — the me they think they know is a construct, only part of the story — James Joyce as Jesuit — James Joyce the aesthete — going slowly blind — grinding out the great creations in the face of insurmountable odds; misunderstanding, penury, censorship, the lovely chains of Ireland past and always present but, shit, what else could I do? — I was as trapped by the iron logic of my own work as any Joycean scholar — forget modernism, the fetter that bound me and, yes, broke me, was the notion of progress — I started small, a few poems, then moved on to short stories, well-crafted they were, too, and finally graduated, with my Portrait, to the novel — all well and good – I was on an upwards trending line on the graph of life, steadily ascending, and seeing the sense and shape of my literary output I made the big jump, the quantum leap, to ur-novel, the novel as encyclopedia, and the result was, of course, Ulysses — but that particular jump from the novel we all know and love to the thinner atmosphere of ‘Great Book’ is a tricky one, because where do you go from there?

Continue reading “Finnegan Joyce” – Fiction by Ron Kolm

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #9, in Pictures

An endless universe of thank-yous to everyone who helped make Reading #9 such a gone gas: Abigail, Billy, Ron, Jack, Leland, and Jessie for performing your flappy lits; Alibi for your groovy singing & luscious photography; Pacific Standard for being such gracious hosts as always; and all you bang-tail cats who came out to watch. Let’s do this again on September 21…

(photos by Alibi Jones)

(we also streamed portions of last nite’s reading on Facebook Live!)

AbigailReadingAbigail Welhouse performs some poetry from her collection Too Many Humans of New York

BillyReadingBilly Robison shares some of the highly unusual emails from his father

RonReadingRon Kolm reads his raunchy James Joyce riff “Finnegan Joyce”


The late Jack Kerouac offers a taste of his novel-in-progress On The Go.


Leland Cheuk reads an excerpt from his novel The Misadventures of Sulliver Pong


All the way from West Virginia, Jessie Janeshek recites a few of her flappiest poems


FHR9poster2Times are bum, and getting bummer– still we got fun, and we’re gonna have loads of it at our 9th Reading on WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 3rd from 7 – 9 PM at Brooklyn’s Pacific Standard! Starring LELAND CHEUKJESSIE JANESHEKALIBI JONESRON KOLMBILLY ROBISON, ABIGAIL WELHOUSEthe late JACK KEROUAC, & maybe more to come…

Admission is 100% FREE, and you can buy print copies of FLAPPERHOUSE X there for the special price of just $5, or our YEAR TWO anthology for just $10.

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)


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


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


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

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).


(Here’s the facebook event page.)


“Damaged Goods” – Fiction by Ron Kolm

Clutter in Basement - Tomwsulcer, 2011
Clutter in Basement – Tomwsulcer, 2011

A city apartment dweller is beset by clutter and kooky neighbors in “Damaged Goods,” Ron Kolm‘s comically claustrophobic short story from our Winter 2016 issue.

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“SONOFABITCH! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY CAB!” drifts through the open third floor window, waking me up. Damn, it’s probably my downstairs neighbor, Mitzi, returning home after another night out. She consumes amazing amounts of alcohol to blot out the pain she’s in. She suffers from osteoporosis; her muscles and ligaments atrophying as well. The only way she’s able to ambulate at all is by using numerous braces and splints: small ones on her arms, large ones on her legs, a corset-thing for her spine. Plus she’s got a complete set of dentures, which she pops in and out (to get the occasional laugh) and one glass eye. To complete the picture, she must weigh close to 300 pounds. Her brace-like contraptions are essentially tiny dams holding a tremendous lake in place. She’s usually still sober enough at closing time to make it into a cab where she immediately unstraps and unhooks them, probably heaving a huge sigh of relief as she does so. The moment they’re all undone her shapeless body flows like unchecked lava into every crevice of the back seat and she passes out. I totally sympathize with the frantic cabbie, whose angry voice I can still hear, and wonder how he explained this situation to his dispatcher.

“Pockita-pockita, Brooklyn Bridge, squatch-squatch, wrap-it-up!”

Great. Eduardo, who lives in the first floor front apartment, must be awake too. Eduardo is a small dark man from Panama. He has salt and pepper hair–mostly salt. Smoke and fire are his elements. He disconnected the old gas stove in his kitchen, removed the jets and burners, and filled the resulting cavity with charcoal which smolders day and night, creating a dense black cloud. We called the fire department more than once after he moved in, but they said there’s nothing they can do, so we’ve learned to live with it.

If his element is smoke, his expertise is cunnilingus. He has set, he assures me, an official record of two hours and forty minutes while doing it. His entire stock of broken English expressions revolves around that particular part of the female anatomy and his special relationship with it. “Windshield wiper,” he’ll say, elbowing me, or “Brooklyn Bridge.” Sometimes it’s “going to the basement” but most of the time he calls it “swimming.”

I know I’m not going to get any sleep unless I help the cabbie get Mitzi out of his car and into her apartment. I pull on my pants and slippers and head for the street. As I pass by his door, Eduardo throws it open, smoke billowing around him like a stage effect, shouting “I’m gonna break my nose! Wrap-it-up!” and leers in my general direction. His glasses are fogged–spirals of smoke rise from his sweater. He places his forefingers and thumbs together, so that they seem to form a crude vagina, and sticks his enormous meaty tongue through the result, wagging it up and down.

“Chewcha!” he cackles.

“Eduardo, you are a sexist pig,” I say, trying to wave him back into his apartment.

“Chung-doom-bloom,” he sniggers, retreating.

Somehow the cabbie, who’s a big guy, and I manage to drag Mitzi out of the car and into the building where we deposit her in front of her apartment door. The driver goes back out and brings in an armload of splints and her purse, which he drops next to her inert form. He then gratefully exits, having collected his fare in advance. Now there’s only the little problem of rousing Mitzi and making sure she gets safely inside her flat. Not a moot point as Eduardo materializes in the hallway in a puff of smoke like a sooty genie. He proceeds to dance around Mitzi’s supine body, pointing out the, by now all too obvious, fact that her legs are spread wide open and she seems to be lacking any undergarments, which drives him into an absolute frenzy.

“Toonyfish! Chewcha! I’m gonna go to de basement and break my record! Two-to-one!”

“Damn it!” I hiss, grabbing him by the shirt and shaking him to break the spell. “Please get back in your apartment, Eduardo—this isn’t helping things!”

I push him away from Mitzi and clumsily try to rearrange the voluminous folds of her skirt in such a way as to cover her exposed parts.

“Mitzi, please wake up. Mitzi, I need your help. Mitzi, where are your keys? Mitzi, this is a nightmare!”

Continue reading “Damaged Goods” – Fiction by Ron Kolm