After we made contact with a man who identified himself as an assistant, Nasdijj’s blog — www.nasdijj.typepad.com/ — was taken offline, the archive removed. Here is a sampling of some of his past postings:
I was working on a book about Leonard Peltier. A publisher at Penguin Putnam was going to “get right back to me.” He never did. I wonder if they all go to some secret island in the Indian Ocean owned and operated by that great travel agent, Judith Regan. All the disappeared publishers. I can just see her now skipping down the bitch beach with her pendulous breasts bobbing about madly. Oh, GOD! Make her STOP!
If you DARE question this self-important group, they bristle. You get into the You’ll Never Have Lunch In Our Town Again syndrome. Publishing is so utterly unimaginative, they can’t even invent new rhetoric. They’re busy. Actually, they’re just rude. And racist. I’ll show them rude and their little dogs, too.
There is a difference though between a publisher who is just plain rude (they are all that) and the ones who are psychotic.
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Like Judith Regan.
The woman is a schizophrenic with an imprint gratis of Rupert Murdoch. Nice guy. Murdoch. If you like Nazis.
I hope the Runaway Bride is a big hit for Miss Regan. She would sell you down the river for a subway token. The woman is an evil witch . . .
Let someone else bury the corpses. I have buried enough to fill a wartime cemetery. No more. I’m done. I’m done focusing on death and death and the culture of death and We’re Going to Get You that is America. My gut overfloweth. You think you are defending freedom. Just like American publishing honestly, truly believes that what it produces is culturally redeeming.
The Runaway Bride isn’t culturally anything. Judith Regan and Our Miss Bliss are publishing hookers who should be shot for spreading cultural syphilis. You don’t get it. You never will. I never want to see your fucking ugly face ever again. It is not a face. It is an asshole. I don’t believe a WORD it says. Not a WORD of it. America lies through its disingenuous teeth . . .
Judith Regan is a fat cow whose cunt stinks . . .
By Bane Bianchi [one of the 25 boys with AIDS and/or cancer said to be living in Nasdijj’s mobile refugee house]
If he can’t be my lover (it ain’t in him), then he can be my teacher. I want it bad. I want to be a writer, too. Teach me. Teach me.
Living with Nasdijj is like learning how to write on your lap in a speeding car down a dirt road of pot holes and emergencies.
Liquid shit coming atcha.
Is it a sin if I want to learn how to write (just a little bit) like he does.
I used to live in this fantasy where we were going to be these two writers who lived together in an empty loft and we never left the loft and I was allowed to kiss his neck and that was all I was ever allowed.
I would kiss his neck and cum and then wake from these haunting dreams.
But I would smell him while I kissed his neck even if it was breaking the rules.
I felt that if I could write like him I would be allowed more than just the neck. No one has studied him harder than I have. No one was more in love with him than me. If I could not have his body then maybe I could have something of his mind.
I need things. Surprise. Our canvas pup tents are old and hot and we need new ones. Five. I will take ten boys at a time into the desert.
Yes. With HIV.
So they might see the world as it really is and listen to the hawk scream blood.
I need a printer. I need people who are willing to sponsor boys. My list is endless. Please donate. I need boots. I’m going to walk them. In moccasins. It will be the desert that embraces us. This is what I want to do.
You’ll see Paypal on my blog. I want to get them in the outdoors. Where they can learn something of the spirituality of the place and how that spirit is about a self-reliance. The night will wrap you in its mortal flame. Alone in the hour of the dead, our dark garments will be from roots and fecund and magic djinns that move in turn in river’s bed so rich it perishes upon the tongue. —N
In publishing, they are immune from persecution and prosecution. They are the faceless editors and publishers. However, they are not faceless to me.
I am here to tell you that these people are evil personified. If the Nazis had won the War To End All Wars, this is the snotty little group that would be there with all the How I Won the War Against the Fucking Jews and more than half of these misguided and confused assholes are jewish. They’d sell the gas chamber shower heads if they thought it might make a buck.
We’re talking scum.
By the end of any given day of dealing with these people, I need a long, hot shower because they make you feel like you’ve just spent the fucking day in slime.
I remember the white teacher walking back and forth between the desks and she’d smack that ruler on your desk to terrify you and to keep her authority intact.
Revenge is not enough.
At some point you put your work out there and you put your work out there and you put your work out there and you get spit on (I am not kidding) by these people with their “lists” so often you begain to smell like bad saliva yourself.
I feel like I am one of the jews who used to beat the other jews before they stripped them and put them in the gas chambers. We exist to make our masters happy and they in turn reward us with their extraordinary indifference.
Some lives are more valuable than others.
There is no better example of that than white publishing as it exists today.
As children, we learned to not raise our hand, we never had the answers, and we tried not to smell too bad before we got off the trains and walked into the gas chambers. It’s been a bust. It was a lie: reading and writing will not help you. It will not facilitate the slightest change. Revenge is a short-lived animal. Like the naked jew who covers his penis before he turns the shower on, there is no fucking hope for you. You are expendable and you know it and all you can do now is take a long deep breath of the fresh air of paradise and fall to the floor with the rest of the bodies as your lives go down the fucking drain.
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. I hate Gina Centrello’s fucking guts. Like it matters.
There are literally over a 100,000 children living in America who have been orphaned by AIDS.
You don’t HEAR about them because their stories are not important enough to get out there.
I can see myself submitting a book proposal to Gina Centrello at Random House. The woman would laugh me out of her office: a book on orphaned children living in America with HIV/AIDS?
“Get the fuck out of my office,” would be the response.
The kind of publishing this woman is cemented to demeans us all. But I have never heard of a reader who ever bothered to complain (firstname.lastname@example.org) about the literate nature of the books she publishes. No. They complain to me.
I was more than a little amused to note that when Centrello came to Random House most of the people who actually worked there had this fantastical notion of Centrello coming with Big Numbers of Books Sold. So much for Simon and Schuster.
But no one knew which books. Like it matters.
So I did a little digging.
Gina Centrello (who refused to continue publishing me because I don’t have the numbers) came to Random House with the big hit of the Beavis and Butthead book.
When Was the Last Time A Publishing House Held an AIDS Fundraiser
The last AIDS fundraiser held by an American mainstream publishing house was held during the Mary Todd Lincoln Literary Festival in 1862 where Gina Centrello was awarded the Beavis and Butthead Award for excellence in publishing.
We have given up on AIDS. HIV, however, has not yet given up on us.
People look at me and with a straight face whine: But it’s bigger than we are and what can we do. Poor us.
Listen to me, you stupid worthless fucks, if anyone as big an idiot as I am can DO something . . .
What the FUCK do you THINK you can do.
YES. I’m angry. But I’m not dead yet. GET OVER IT and get OFF your lazy fat ass. And DO something.
Is HIV “the enemy.”
What is publishing. Yes, there IS a connection. It is one of symbolism and symbolisms are important; what do you think LANGUAGE is. It is the abstract symbolism of SOUND.
Indifferent. Indifferent. Indifferent.
Beyond what I DO, what I CAN do is put my foot up their BUTT. They are overdue.
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