"Nothing Doing delivers an insight into the more perverse view on how the developments of twentieth century history have impacted the American psyche, from the industry of commercially manufactured emotions through to the Cold War. Elinor Walpole, Sabotage
"Willie Smith wheels the Human Condition into the examining room and proceeds to poke, prod, humor and biopsy any suspicious growths with the surgical precision of Franz Kafka and Robert Walser. Should be included in any survival kit. - Donald Guravich, author of World at Large
"Nothing Doing is masterful in making an all-pervasive sense of absence and discontent run cohesively through a set of diverse stories. And all the more masterful for using beautiful poetic prose to describe distinctly unbeautiful events." - Grace Read, The View From Here
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The horniest picture I ever saw was in National Geographic. It was a spider's asshole magnified fifty times. Resembled a soggy Cheerio on a slate background. I haven't been the same since. Because I wanna do me one, and no live spider is big enough to accommodate. I've tried jacking off on arachnids. Wolf spiders and tarantulas the best. Daddy longlegs impossible. Scorpions a bitch. But I never come near the satisfaction gleaned that afternoon when I first drenched the National Geo full-color centerfold blown up to reveal a teensy parasite wriggling in some jungle spider's O ring. You can't always get what you want. But, if you fixate, sometimes you get what you pay for. Visualize arachnoid roundeye. One night I was jizzing a black widow - ejaculating without orgasm, bored with the universe. I turned some jazz on the radio, while watching the spider struggle under the shroud of ejaculate. Goodman Benny inhaled clarinet. Jack Webb sat in. Max Roach fogged the chamber. They were in mixolydian - I heard a vodka tonic. Willie "The Lion Smith masturbated the 88. I daydreamed antiaircraft fire. Nazi flak redshifted into what I'd dine upon that night. Turkey Tetrachloride? Veal Hardon Blue? Fish Dicks? Spam Sushi? Only a wizard could decide which TV dinner, when all you got is a radio. Imagine my lack of preparation, daydreaming as I was, when into the room clacked a spider big as a Buick. Eight pale legs supported a hispid, chartreuse body. She spun around. Hiked her crupper. Displayed a taut caterpillar green starfish. Like in a dream, I approached the miracle. The chiton of her legs buckled with anticipation. I ran a finger over the sphincter that was tinier than a dowager's purse. She stood nervous, shy, to all appearances a virgin. She was dry as calculus. I ran to the kitchen for butter. Wow, I thought, yanking open the fridge, a cherry hallucination! I froze, staring at a bearded carrot, a cube of butter, a plastic liter of Rococo Coke and a stutter of roaches that had wormed in under the door. The roaches didn't appreciate the light. Several rotated feelers. But none broke ranks. The fridge was too cold, despite crumbling insulation, for them to panic at such a stimulus. The insect at the head of the line lifted a leg at the grate of the middle shelf, whereon lay the carrot abandoned by Bugs Bunny about the time of Hiroshima. I guess I didn't have any TV dinners after all.