About Dunstan McGill
Dunstan McGill grew up in isolated wealth on a family-owned island off Maine, where he was kept constant solace by his confidant and riding horse, Aloysius. After graduating from an exclusive, private boy's academy, he spent four years chasing pygmy goats in the mountainlands of New Guinea, before returning to the States, to accept the chairmanship of a gold-mining magnate, bequeathed to him by his dead father. He has since sold the company and spends his days strapped to a windsurf board, working on an unfinished memoir the New Yorker has already declared "an epic statement of letters--perhaps the last, best word on mankind we could hope for." When he's not avoiding the lurking eye of the British Press, Mr. McGill writes blog entries on blind dates at seedy, midwestern bowling alleys. The notorious, albeit fashion-savvy recluse has had a tempestuous on-again, off-again affair with an ex-Russian model/ballerina. He has no children. And he often plays himself to sleep at night, with Chopin on his white, grand piano.
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I’ve been where you are. Enjoying the night. Letting the smoothness of the jam band on stage sink into you. The bouncing bass. The silver-tight guitar hits. The competent drumming. You’re doing what you can to forget about the week. When all of a sudden some motherfucking steampunks show up. Steampunks are essentially dressing up as Samuel Clemens retro. Steampunks look at a handlebar mustache, muttonchops, perhaps a guidebook for how to properly build a late-19th-century textile factory, a mechanical arm prosthesis, some short story...
She Reads You Her Text Message History. All girls are protective of their iPhones. It’s a gender thing, not a her thing. So she slams down the knife when she’s chopping onions and runs in from the kitchen when her phone buzzes near you. Listen, that might sound scary BUT, she reads you her text messages anyway from that guy she used to fuck behind her ex-boyfriend’s back! Granted, she skips over a few, giggles to herself and inserts passing phrases like, “And then he just...
The worst possible thing that could happen to poetry has just happened again: a presidential inauguration. Poetic rabble-rousers such as those housed in M.F.A. programs, high school literature teacher conventions in beige-y hotel conference rooms, and a few suburban Caribou Coffee open mic nights were probably as dismayed as I was Monday. If you were looking to return poetry from the brink of obscurity by pointing once-and-for-all to a contemporary, stirring display of prosodical power, you were sorely disappointed by all-around nice guy/memoirist/national poet laureate...
When my Grandma died last month my relatives—the ones who had gathered by her bedside—said they saw a ghost. “It was more like a bright window opened for an instant, and then disappeared.” When my Grandma opened her eyes for a couple hours the night she passed away, she didn’t say anything—as though her soul had already departed her body. “I believe” was the common refrain heard around the table, long after midnight a couple nights at later at my Grandma’s wake. I poured myself...
Trans-Siberian Orchestra If being frozen in time as the auteurs of a dangerously-bland style of heavy metal in the mid- to late 1980s is your idea of self-imposed dungeon of pop culture Gehenna, let me introduce you to that—plus the 1990s and only-Christmas music. No one ever accused Christmas of being adrenaline-starved, but one year in my Dad’s CD player these clowns showed up to demonstrate what our yuletide had always been missing: butt rock and double-bass pedal. They feature the guy from Metallica on...
It started when I tried hooking up with some hot babes on a missionary trip. I wanted to go and help the indigent in Chicago, but when that was all dudes, I joined with the group going to a group home in Iowa. Turned out the babes weren’t much to write home about, but I did make friends with a nun who asked me to be one of the two student residents at a church over the next two years on campus. My room was...
We still strip people naked and strap them to chairs. Okay, so maybe the royal “we” here is too loosely applied. By “we” I mean police officers and specifically Dakota County parole officers on Memorial Day Weekend 2012. This isn’t for everyone though. Just for women who try to use boxcutters to puncture their husbands’ chests like a blind person errantly searching for the straw hole in a Capri Sun. Oh, and then you have to threaten to do bodily harm to yourself using your...
My brother’s text message reached me just before 6 p.m. on Labor Day. (5:59) “Bon Iver might be coming over to my house for dinner tonight.” Okay, so this wasn’t normal. Some cats in Minneapolis/St. Paul pride themselves on playing twice-a-month bocce ball with Justin Vernon or something. I don’t know. Not us. We’re “off grid” for local celebs. We once saw Scottie Pippen in the Saks 5th Avenue downtown Minneapolis and went through a hormonal change. But now in fairness, my brother uses that Siri...
-Rashes or burn marks on your chest when you leave your phone/laptop to free up a hand for a little passion dining “table of one” down below. -Induced vertigo while debating synonyms. Like have you’ve already used “round tits” and “candy ass?” Or have this time you stuck mostly to “lush pussy” and “sensual, sofa-shaped lips”? -Carpal tunnel from writing “lick your clit,” which iPod takes as something asinine as “pull the clutch,” then lining up the cursor, swearing at yourself and opting for the...
No crunk, except for late-stage Kanye: While lots of girls gain exterior street cred by screen-saving their Spotify playlist when it plays Birdman, this one is secretly girly. Or she’s a Polish lingerie model. It’s a string of indie bands: Celebrating a bunch of Arcade Fire in a row may indicate she paid savvy attention to the 2011 Grammys. OR, that she spent long hours in studio spaces during high school with other art students, revealing her own penchant and pent-up dreams for being a...
…Then I barfed. Rollerskating really hurts Ride my Cadillac! That’s your girlfriend? Forget. We. Fucked. Investigate my PEACEPIPE; Clean up, Placenta! “I’m sorry, goonfuck,” Shinyred buttonteeth forchomping. War is hilARIOUS .broke mind Tom’s Racist airplanes attack, —Oh, the carousel I’m your Post-Doc. Freddie Phelps’ presents…. EAT YOUR SURREAL. ~Dunstan McGill
It’s supposed to appeal to those dudes who turn to Big Buck Hunter II when bar conversation veers away from Stuart Scott. In other words, this book comes directly from the penis of Joe Bovino, American douchebag who says he got a law degree and pioneered some workout craze. OK, it’s not that bad. In Field Guide to Chicks of the United States, Bovino examines classifications of women across the country, from Buckethead Betty (rural South) to Jelly Shot (African American-Midwest) to Bumbshell (Brazilian-American), all...
