eggshellparade:

The Eggshell Parade brings you an interview with writer Mark Baumer.

This is an interview I did when I used to not believe I was human. I tried to talk for a year straight.

I had a dream that two people were in bed with two other people who were holding their musical instruments. One of the people got out of bed and began to pack his camping equipment. One of the other people decided to go to Europe. In Europe he found a dog and hung out with some people who sold miniature guitars. A guy with a red skull on his forearm tried to eat the dog. 

Did the social group of negroes formally known as young coloreds presently understood to be African Americans actually dance on moving vehicles in the late 1920s as white people were first establishing their roots in the new-old monies of the era prior to the drama that involved nearly everyone in America eating dirt and feeling lonely?*

The problem with everything is that in general we are afraid to metaphorically destroy our original thoughts in relation to the nostalgia we felt when we were six years old and we first understood that our brains could think, but did not understand and will probably never fully understand that our first thoughts will always be our favorite thoughts even if these initial thoughts weren’t very good.**

Sometimes the only way to make a lot of money is to scream until the insides of all your pants turn brown.***

*Translation: Why are their black people dancing in cars, didn’t they realize the great depression was coming?

**Translation: Movie remakes will never truly be good unless they first kill all evidence in society of the original movie

***Translation: At this point I would only pay to see a movie starring Tobey Maguire if it was a documentary and the camera crew just followed him around Hollywood all day while he pooped himself.

Inside this book about sea monsters that I found on the street there was a love note. In the love note “Sam” admitted that he has not been able to control his face for a couple of months.

A buffalo made out of coal dust and wrapped in a clear sheet of plastic looked at me today and asked if I would have a weekend barbecue so I could feed my neighbors the coal dust hamburger meat that was standing on the other side of a field wrapped in its refrigerator dress, but instead I went to a chocolate river to look for a salmon and egg salad sandwich which I found next to a married couple who dressed like they lived inside a harvarti cheese factory.

I went for a jog today. When I got home a squirrel chased me across the street and tried to jump on my head. A guy laughed at me because he thought the squirrel was my pet. Two guys got out of a red bmw. The squirrel stopped chasing me and crawled into one of the guys’ palms. He took a picture of the squirrel with his iPhone and then looked up whether or not squirrels can get rabies. It turns out that squirrels rarely can get rabies. Some other people held the squirrel. It seemed lost. The squirrel ran up to a house and looked in the window. No one knew what to do. I picked up the squirrel. It was breathing hard. Someone said they lived on a farm with a veternarian. This person put the squirrel in a box and drove to a farm where the veternarian lived.

I bought a bag of potato chips, ate the entire bag, felt sick, bought a cheap used frame for three dollars, put the empty bag of potato chips in the frame, took a picture of the frame, put the picture on the internet, waited for someone to buy my empty bag of potato chips, wrapped the cheap used picture frame in toilet paper, wrote an address on the outside of the toilet paper, and mailed the empty bag bag of potato chips to someone who appreciated my talents and abilities. 

Television makes your brain swell which is why faces get fatter when you put them in the video box.

About a month ago, I did a performance in Boston for Sleeping Weazel. The name of this performance was “Human Milkshake.” Last week, I did a revised performance of “Human Milkshake” at Amherst Media called “Becoming Large

(Source: blip.tv)

My father drank four-hundred hours of a soda called “Moxie,” and when he finished he wrote the first book that can literally be drank with the piece of the human body that eats things that might be liquid. Everyone who has drank my father’s book has gone on to do things with their life that they wouldn’t have done otherwise. One person who drank my father’s book went to graduate school. His name was “mark.” He got his master’s degree in making two-dimensional crayon movements. “Mark” is pretty good at using a yellow crayon.

If my father was a cat he probably would have wrote every book in the existence of humanity, but my father is not a cat. He is a human being. He has written three books. Sometimes when no one is looking my father will meow at his computer screen while he is typing a book.

My father wrote a book about a kind of soda that doesn’t exist called Moxie. When I was a child my father used to make me and my siblings drink this soda even though our brains were too young to drink a kind of soda that didn’t exist.

The first time I drank Moxie, it felt like someone had dumped a glass of dirt in my mouth. I waited until my mouth sweat diluted the taste of the Moxie before I swallowed it.

People who are children of other people will enjoy this book because it is a pretty object and human beings like to hold pretty objects.

On my seventh birthday, my father told me he was writing a book about Moxie. I didn’t believe him. I thought he was joking. His self-confidence was not affected even though no one believed he could write a book about a kind of soda that does not exist.

For those who don’t know, Moxie is a flavor of soda that was invented to cure mouth fungus in the 1800’s. At least thirty billion people have died from drinking Moxie.

While my father was writing the book about a soda that does not exist, our family did not eat anything except the soda that does not exist. My father is probably one-hundred-and-forty years old. It took him most of his life to write this book. For over one-hundred years, our family has only been fed this non-existent soda.

Presidents all over the free world are throwing out first pitches. Only forty-eight more games until the alien that lives inside Manny Ramierez’s brain is allowed to runaround. Over the next six months the concentration of men’s sweat in the atmosphere will increase. Baseball still exists. I have a story in Hobart’s annual baseball issue. It’s about Craig Griffey, Ken Griffey Jr.’s brother.

I published a story with an east korean newspaper called “metazen.” The story is non-fiction and very informational. It will help you survive yourself for the rest of your life.