The Finch at the Feeder

Wes Anderson and Tilda Swinton are the same person.

Proof:





Told you so.

Free tip: If you're in the mood to get angry, browse any site that offers daily Christian devotionals. You may find a good one or two, but you'll soon run across one like this:

(Don't let the length intimidate you. As is the case with most craziness, it's a quick read.)

Manipulation is witchcraft!

1 Kings 21:25—But there was none like unto Ahab, which did sell himself to work wickedness in the sight of the LORD, whom Jezebel his wife stirred up.

Jezebel manipulated Ahab every day of his life. Manipulation in marriage works this way. A wife can manipulate her husband with sex. It says, “If you buy me what I want today, the bedroom is going to be exciting tonight. And if you don’t, I’m going to be like an iceberg until you cave in. It’s your choice, Bubba,” That’s witchcraft. You can manipulate through moods. “Give daddy what he wants, or he’ll get mad.” That’s witchcraft, and you’ll be giving into it till the day you die.

I’m talking about the spirit of witchcraft evidenced by manipulation. In the home, children will try to manipulate the parents. Many times a rebellious child will try to divide the parents, getting the father to stand against the mother, and vice versa. That’s witchcraft, pure and simple. When the child gets older, her or she will threaten to run away if they don’t get their way. I’m speaking from experience here.

I was raised in a very strict German home. If I told you how strict, many of you would think it was child abuse. It was strong. No movies. No dominoes. No Monopoly, because it had dice and my mother didn’t want her son to grow up to be a gambler. That’s how strong it was. So one day I got the idea that I’d just leave home. I’m 17 years old and bright as the noonday sun. And I came in and told my German mama, “I’m leaving. I’m getting out of here.” She said, “Fine.” Then she pulled my suitcase out of the closet and started throwing my clothes in it and telling me goodbye. I got a revelation that I wasn’t going to be there to eat supper. Mother wasn’t upset at all. She was telling me about Traveler’s Aid whenever I ran out of money and things like that. It took me about five minutes to start eating humble pie. I said, “I’ll do anything you want me to, just let me hang around and eat another meal.”

Is your home divided because your children are manipulating you? Parents, you stop it. You get together and you make those little tortilla snappers jump up and do what you want them to do. You’re the leader at your house, they’re not. Listen up, teenagers. Your parents do not owe you a perpetual good time. If you’re bored, get up off your duff and dust the furniture, vacuum the rugs, make the beds, wash the clothes, go outside and cut the grass, clean the windows wash the family car and then go back inside and straighten up your room before you leave to straighten out the world.

When children grow up, many mothers try to manipulate their grown children with guilt. Some of you are forty years old and can’t cross the street without your mother’s permission. That’s not good. Mother’s manipulation goes something like this. “I just want you to remember that I almost died giving birth to you. I slaved to feed you. I took clothes off my back to clothe you. I begged and borrowed to give you a big wedding. An now you won’t do what I want you to do.” That’s the spirit of Jezebel; that’s witchcraft—stop it!

Devotion taken from Pastor Hagee’s book 12 Sunday Mornings Volume 3 – currently unavailable



Where to begin, where to begin...how about the fact that Pastor Hagee's understanding of how women talk seems to have been learned from spam email about penis enlargement? "The bedroom is going to be exciting tonight?" Did she install a disco ball?

You've got misogyny, obviously. That's an easy one--sort of a staple in ill-advised Christian messages. It bothers me that this fictional woman calls her husband "Bubba," but it bothers me more that--in the same paragraph about sexual manipulation--Hagee includes the priceless: "give daddy what he wants, or he'll get mad." Let's leave your weird role-play stuff out of this, Padre.

Apparently most of Hagee's readers consider a home without movies, dominoes, or Monopoly an abusive one. I guess I can understand that, because Monopoly kicks ass. But referring to children as "tortilla snappers" is either one of the more racist things I've ever heard, or Hagee was suffering from word salad, and the person he was dictating to didn't want to correct him.

If Hagee thinks his domino-less home was borderline child abuse, than what would he call the slave-labor he suggests for teenagers? I'm all for children helping out around the house, but he's listed every chore that people don't want to do. What are the parents doing during all this, watching Fox news?

The worst, predictably, is the crux of his argument. In what is surely meant to be "Hagee getting personal," he opens up, sharing a childhood story about how, in a fit of rebellion & witchcraft manipulation, he threatened to run away from home. He then explains that his mother, in her wisdom, simply pretended not to give a damn, which made him come to his senses and go set the table.

What is more manipulative than a mother pretending she doesn't care that her son is skipping town!? He raises this tactic up as the perfect way to make someone eat "humble pie," (another method: tell them it's lingonberry) but she's the worst offender of all.

I've got news for you Pastor: your mom's strict rules may have kept you from a life of gambling and vagrancy, but--if your theory is correct--she was also a real-life witch.

OK, confession. I have been trying for over a month to finish American Pastoral, the book that won Phillip Roth a Pulitzer Prize, was named one of the greatest novels of all time by TIME, and took a runner-up spot in the "greatest work of American fiction in the last 25 years" contest that NYT Book review did a few years back. I have picked it up and put it down two pages later a dozen times, but I've also done full-chapter trudges (Phillip Roth chapters are about 290 pages long) that have left me with not much more than tired eyes and a thin layer of mild depression.

There are quite a few good things about the novel. The character of Swede Levov is great, well-developed, someone the reader can really see. The plot is compelling, the narrator is exactly the right person to tell the story, and the device used to deliver the story from a close third-person perspective is genius. There are scenes that I felt--really felt--in a visceral, stinging way. But Phillip Roth stops every few paragraphs to pontificate, to masturbate literary-style, in a way that makes the whole thing feel like riding a badly-designed theme park ride. The dull parts are too long and too numerous, and the exciting parts are too short to feel like they were worth the wait.

I also think that we should care a little more about Mary, Swede's daughter, before she goes where she goes/does what she does. Maybe it has to do with the fact that I'm not a father yet, but my inclination throughout most of the story has been "tell her to screw off, Swede!"

This whole rambling academic vibe must be Roth's shtick. I read The Dying Animal first, (library was out of American Pastoral) not realizing that I'd already seen the movie they adapted from it. I admit, I didn't figure out that it was the same story until I was halfway through, mostly because I was too busy wading through Roth's diatribes. We spend the whole of this novella in the narrator's head as he details his affair/obsession with his (much) younger student, so it ends up reading like an extra-long Wordpress entry. I think I got through this one because it was both shorter (under 200 pages) and sexier (possible alternate title=Boobs and Death: One Man's Thoughts), but it was no easy battle. I've always preferred authors that didn't do all the thinking for me.

The decision is, do I keep reading American Pastoral so that I can say I gave it my all (and so I can raise my hand if I'm ever in a book club and someone asks)? Or should I spend my energies elsewhere, with one of the many books I've got on deck that I'll actually enjoy? I can't decide. I think that people that give up on books too quickly cheat themselves, but just writing about the possibility of reading another chapter is making me yawn. Plus, I bet I can figure out the end (everyone is unhappy, lives that seem perfect aren't, anyone?)

Considering Elegy (The Dying Animal adaptation) was one of the few movies that was better than the book, maybe I'll stop now and hold out for the American Pastoral movie due out in '11. Considering it has a good director and great cast going for it, I can't imagine it being anything but an improvement.

A surprising number of celebrities are honest-to-goodness Scientologists. Since this "religion" is guano-crazy, I wanted to find out why. It took some digging, but I discovered the true reasons behind some of the more unbelievable conversions.

John Travolta

You may not know this, but Battlefield Earth is actually adapted from the first half of a book by L. Ron Hubbard. No lie. Problem is, Travolta was contractually obligated to star in Battlefield Earth 2: The Second Half. L. Ron told him the only way he could get out of making this movie, which could only be described as a "career-crucifier," was to convert. Travolta admitted defeat, not realizing that it was already too late.





Kirstie Alley

Similar situation, actually. Kirstie was drunk on Schnapps and ice tea the night she signed up to co-star with Travolta in Look Who's Talking. What she didn't realize is that is was an eleven-sequel commitment. That's right, eleven sequels to this. Kirstie woke up, hungover and freaking out. Luckily, Hubby (L. Ron's new nickname, not her Baywatch-directing husband) stepped in an offered to make the whole thing go away if she'd start going to his "church." The rest is history.





Jenna Elfman

It's a little-known fact, but Jenna Elfman is a serious method actor. She got into Scientology to prepare for her role as Dharma in the "hit" ABC series Dharma and Greg and has never got around to un-registering.





Giovanni Ribisi

Actually, he was tricked into it. What follows is the exchange:


Giovanni Ribisi: (Whistling a tune as he walks down a street)

L. Ron Hubbard in disguise as a friendly hippie-type: Yo Maa-an.

GR: Oh, oh hello. Hi. What, ah, what's going on my friend?

LRHIDAAFHT: Yo dude, I can get you like the highest you've ever been man. You'll love what I've got. Come back to my house with me.

GR: Oh, ah, see--I don't do drugs or anything. I'm clean, you know? Thank you, though, for the offer and everything, ah--

LRHIDAAFHT: Please man, you'll like it, come on.

GR: Well, ah, I guess I could ah, you know--come with you. I'm not gonna do any drugs but if you want to just hang out or whatever, you know, that would be okay.

LRHIDAAFHT: Yeah, come on to my house ma-an.

GR: Oh, ah, haha, OK.

Later

LRHIDAAFHT: Sign this or I will fucking kill you.

GR: (signs it, weeping.)





Jason Lee

He was bored, and he thought it would be funny.

Here's the preface to this post: I adore Ricky Gervais. I'm a huge fan of The Office and of Extras, and his stand-up is some of the best I've ever seen. I laugh like a moron watching this guy. Ghost World suffered from so-so writing, but Gervais' performance made me glad I watched it.


The Invention of Lying is Gervais' cinematic directorial debut. I wanted it to be a lot of things, but here's what it was (pseudo-spoilers to follow):

First 25 minutes or so: People making fun of Gervais with straight faces because, you see, they can't lie. There is also a hilarious Coke commercial.

Next 30 minutes or so: Gervais learns to lie, tricks people into doing stuff. Cue the unnecessary celebrity cameos.

Next 35 minutes or so: Gervais pokes easy fun at the most elementary of religious principles.

Final 10 minutes: Abrupt, cheesy ending. Credits.


Now you say, Andrew, you can't possibly sum up the whole movie that quickly, dismissing an entire work with just a few quips. You cannot oversimplify! Oh, but dear reader, I can. Because Gervais and Matthew Robinson, who co-wrote, did exactly that. They did it to their premise, they did it to Christianity, and they did it to their audience.

Gervais and Robinson committed the great sin of underestimating their viewers. Gervais offering up a one-note joke of a movie like this is the cinematic equivalent of buying your best girl gas station flowers for Valentine's Day. The awkwardly-placed cameos by all my favorite actors (Hoffman, Norton, Fey, Bateman, Bill from Freaks and Geeks) only made it worse. You know when a baby is crying and screaming, so you grab the closest toy, shake it in front of them and say, in your best high-pitched voice: look at the elephant! Look at this elephant! ?

It felt like that. And it pissed me of as much now as it did back then. Man, did I hate that. I'd poop down my own leg for revenge every time.



Anyway. I think the part that bothered me most, that pushed me over the ledge of annoyed and into the sea of offended was the film's treatment of Western religion. I'm no enemy of religious satire or parody, honest. Gervais is a proud atheist, and I get that. I respect it. But if you're going to point and laugh at something for half a movie, at least acknowledge some of its depth and complexity.

See, the Bible is pretty problematic. It provides an unlimited wealth of material for doubters, comedians and stoned agnostics to debate, denigrate, and disrespect. When you go further than that, and start delving into church dogma, religious zealots, and DC Talk's early stuff, even steadfast believers have to admit that Christianity can be pretty damn ridiculous.

Instead, the film's laugh factor hinges on this idea: that a "man in the sky" controls everything, that if you do 3 bad things you go to a bad place, but if you are good you go to a good place and get a mansion. Oh, and Gervais grows a beard so that he kinda looks like chubby Jesus. This alone seems to be the extent of the writers' understanding of religion.

Most religious people I know (even the close-minded jerks) moved past that kind of thinking when they were around five. If you're committed to lampooning an entire system of belief, at least give credit where credit is due. If you believe that all of religion is a lie told by one hapless idiot, at least admit that it's a terribly complex lie, one that means a great deal to a great many people. Christianity--true Christianity--is not a religion for the immature or the simple. It is actually quite challenging. And Gervais makes it look like a collection of dunces.

When people attack Christians this way, they remind me of Glenn Beck. And of Rush Limbaugh. And of all the dopes they hate because they speak out against something that they do not understand.


Also, and finally: this movie had some very clever moments, but it should have been much funnier. The premise had tons of possibility, Gervais was at the helm, and apparently every great actor currently working wanted in on it. Instead, what we got is something very few of us would want to pay for: an 18.5 million dollar anti-Christian statement. One which, instead of making an argument or delivering good comedy, muddled in the middle of the two, winking and nudging all the way to the lukewarm end.

My new favorite humor website is Conservapedia. Seriously, these guys are hilarious. I'm not sure who is behind it, but they're giving Stephen Colbert a run for his money with their ludicrous portrayal of the "crazy right."

The jokes start right off the bat: they dub themselves "The Trustworthy Encyclopedia." This is a gut-buster for a number of reasons. The first is that the site works exactly like Wikipedia, meaning anyone can edit almost any article as he or she sees fit. I just wrote that Ronald Reagan is "known by many of his followers as 'Jesus II'." Boy, do I love satire! The second is that they present the looniest claims that right wing dolts make as encyclopedic fact. According to Conservapedia, Barack Hussein Obama (haha, they insist on using his middle name, just like the dummies!) is a false name. He's also foreign-born, a mobster, an acceptor of fraudulent cash, a fetus-eater, etc. They even say that he used mind control to be elected! A crackup--Not even Hannity claims that! The whole format is comic genius; it is almost as if people actually believe this stuff!

Hmm? What? No, no...seriously?

OK. I'm being told that this website is not a joke. Conservapedia was, in fact, set up to "combat the liberal bias of Wikipedia." And claims like "Sarah Palin was attacked by the press on a level not since Dan Quayle...but she ultimately handled it much better," are certainly illustrative of an unbalanced, straightforward point of view.

Sick. OK. This website is still a gut-buster, but now it's dark humor. Ultra-dark. We're talking a-magician's-inside-pocket dark. O.J.-on-the-cover-of-TIME dark. We're talking Very Bad Things style funny here. And now I'm conflicted.

See, I want to keep browsing, so that I can find more gems like this image of a woman's ultrasound, which she and Conservapedia believe to be not a baby, as one would expect, but instead an image of Jesus Christ, pleading the mother not to abort. (I'm so glad someone is finally presenting unbiased information!)

On the other hand, every time I click on a new guffaw-inspiring article, I'm boosting their hits. This could cause the psychos behind this stuff to believe that they have more supporters than they actually do, which could lead to more funding for them, more advertising for them, and bragging rights at their wacky gatherings.

The same thing is true for everyone who watches The O'Reilly factor just for yucks. I mean, I understand, the guy is hilariously doltish, but check the highlights on Youtube or something, geez. Otherwise, when you hear that he's got 2.5 million viewers every time he's on, you have to remember that you're part of the problem.




PS: If you need any more proof that Conservapedia is run by the seriously deranged, check this: they're rewriting the Bible. As it turns out, the Good Book has a huge liberal bias, too.

[Edit: I started this entry on Wednesday, September 30, and couldn't think of a good punchline to a joke that appears below. I put the entry on hold until today, so all of my readers would know how funny I truly am.]


Last night, Andrew Bird and St. Vincent played at The Murat downtown, and it was stellar. It has been a long time since a show really hit me, but this one did, in a big way.

Annie Clark, who basically is St. Vincent (sorry, other dudes who were there), is, as my hot fiancee put it, "fucking hot." She's not exactly my type (she's kind of a waif, and I'm into curves), but she does have some serious stage presence that demands your attention. I know for a fact that Stevi would run away with her in a heartbeat, and I guess I understand. She looks like a cross between Christina Ricci in That Darn Cat and Helena Bonham Carter in everything (except her stint on Miami Vice)--in other words, a Tim Burton cocktail. On the albums, St. Vincent is a by-the-book boxer: form and beauty mixed with calculated, effective punches. Live, they're more like a half-drunk street brawler--they come out swinging and never really stop. Their newest, Actor, released earlier this year.

When Andrew Bird took the stage, it was immediately obvious why he and Clark are touring together. This lanky gentleman treats his violin like a lover, from gentle caresses to--you know--the rough stuff. He alternately plucked, bowed, and straight up ravaged his instrument, and even took some time out to pick up a guitar or two as well. His extensive use of a loop pedal was surprising but fascinating, and he's got a voice like the purring engine of a European sports car. He also whistles. Save for his haunting version of "Why?" from his Andrew Bird's Bowl of Fire days, he was at his best with his backing band (Martin Dosh, Jeremy Ylvisaker, and Mike Lewis), who ably kept up with Bird's passion, energy and musical godishness.

To summarize, you simply must go see Andrew Bird and St. Vincent if you have the opportunity. They are two artists that represent a (sadly) dwindling type of performer, the kind whose live shows transcend their already-great recorded work, illustrating the line between performance and experience.

Making a Molotov cocktail is easy. Remember to tape the top and you're golden--the bottles break without much effort, just like us. Even without experience, you could have a batch in the time it takes to brush your teeth.

Resist this urge. The chuck will feel righteous, but the aftermath will make you an ash--a single ash in an evidence bag full of ashes, the investigators taking you wherever they like.

Instead, paint a still life. The dust-covered oak, the rotten pears, the fruit flies with their buzz. Paint a crack in the bowl that holds it all together. Mute the colors. Step back. The finished product should look like an apology.

Stare at it for a while before you strike the match. When the first corner catches fire, you might smile. Keep staring. The table, the rot, the buzz--it's all yours

and it's almost gone.

Those of you who know me realize; this is a serious blow.

Today I read an article that justifies all the ripping, burning, downloading and pirating I haven't been doing since I first installed Napster back in The Year 2000.

Here ya go.

For my lazy friends and followers, the article explains that record labels (as well as composers, writers, and publishers) of music are petitioning the government, asking them to charge Apple a "performance fee" every time a 30-second preview clip of their song is played.

No, this is not made up. They want Apple to pay them to advertise their products.


Here's an idea: why don't movie theaters pay studio executives every time they show their trailers? And why doesn't NBC bill me every time I carry my Dunder Mifflin umbrella?


The music industry has reached a new low, and I'm striking back. Everyone, please post the name of one CD (preferably from a major label) that you would like to own, but don't. I'll download it and make a free copy for you.

...of course I'm kidding! Haha, that's so illegal that it is barely funny. I would never do that. BUT! To make the joke even funnier/more realistic, go ahead and send me your address or whatever in a private message. That way I can "send you the CD." Haha!


They say that laughter is the best medicine, which is why I am pulling this awesome joke. Maybe it will cure the record industry of their stupid, stupid greed.

A recap of the joke: Comment below with the name of a CD you would like to own (and would probably buy eventually, unless someone made you a copy, in which case you definitely won't). Then, send me your address and I'll send you a free, illegal copy of that CD, no questions asked.

Just kidding!

What child of the 90’s didn’t own a copy of post-punk group Chumbawamba’s breakout record Tubthumper? The album with the purple baby on the front is a pop-culture artifact—an instantly recognizable record that was in virtually everyone’s collection, from pop-music junkies to indie kids, from alternative rockers to hardcore punks. There was only one problem with the album—it didn’t meet anyone’s expectations.

See, Chumbawamba became a household name upon the release of their single “Tubthumping,” the dance rock hit that spent 3 months at the top of the charts, not to mention in everyone’s heads. So beloved was the song, in fact, that millions rushed out to by this record from a band they’d never heard of, hoping to get more songs with the same catchy party-pop sensibilities.

Instead, they got album full of experimental oddities, spoken-word clips, strange instrumentation, and a lot of other stuff that was decidedly un-fun. “Tubthumping” was a fluke, or at least was completely unrepresentative of Chumbawamba’s art as a whole.

After reading actual air, I feel like I purchased Tubthumper all over again. It isn’t that it is a bad book—far from it—instead, it is an unexpected book, a book that sets itself up one way, and then goes in an entirely different direction, never to return.

I bought actual air because I had loved “Snow,” “Classic Water,” and “The Charm of 5:30,” three of the poems featured in Part I of the book. All three are straightforward narratives, sharp with insight and image, completely beautiful and absolutely touching.

Indeed, most of the poems in Part I can be described in this way. Although the three I had read before picking up actual air are still my favorites, poems like "Imagining Defeat" and "The Moon" stand out for their soft, charming quirkiness and unique turns of phrase. One sample line: “Then she brought something black up to her mouth / a plum I thought, but it was an asthma inhaler.”

It is in parts 2 and 3, however, that the book takes an odder, less-accessible turn. Multi-part poems that go on for 8 pages, loose associations that leave their poems anchorless, and an affinity for the crass (“We watched ‘motherfuckers’ crackle out of his mouth. / He wanted something. Something like a mini-mart blowjob.”) seem almost completely unrelated to the sweet, quiet poems that usher them in.

Even the subject matter in parts 2 and 3 is a vast contrast to that which is found in part 1. Part 1 features personal poems that seem at once intimate and universal. Parts 2 and 3 have got everything from anti-establishment to sci-fi. “The Night Nurse Essays” is even part murder mystery.

In all three parts, Berman makes it clear that he has a thing for sound. Even in some of the book’s worst poems, redemption is found in lines like “She wore a dress of voting booth curtains / to a party at the coroner’s split-level ranch.” Berman is the front man for a rock band called Silver Jews, and his rhythms carry over nicely into his poetry.

All in all, I can’t really say too much against this book. There aren’t any bad poems here, and, while the latter poems might not be as easy to emotionally connect with, it is hard not to get excited by Berman’s technique. No, the real problem with this book lies with the reader, namely me. I bought it expecting the confessional, the intimate, the emotionally vulnerable. What I got was a solid book of poems that has more to say than I could’ve thought possible. Despite the missed expectations, I wouldn’t hesitate to call Berman a great contemporary poet.

Which is more than I can say for anyone in Chumbawamba.

Kanye got me thinking. I've never seen Taylor Swift or Beyonce's videos, because I believe women should be in the kitchen making pies, not in the studio making music (can I get a hell yea?), but I do understand the urge to just say something when you don't agree with a decision that it completely out of your control. I think that I come off as having a good deal of grace in a lot of situations, but that's because I work at it. More often than not, I want to linguistically bust somebody up, but I keep my mouth shut because it's impossible to change someone's mind directly. You have to be sneaky.


My parents got me a Kindle. I was anti-Kindle when they first released (OMG, they'll burn all the books!) and then I was Kindle-neutral for a long time. Then I started researching and it actually started to sound pretty damned desirable. What's more important, the message or the medium? Then I figured if they do decide to start burning the books, I'd better be familiar with the Kindle, so I can write with that layout in mind. I subscribed to Narrative right off the bat, because they were the first literary magazine to be released in Kindle format. It's a so-so publication. They charge a whopping $20 reading fee for submissions, but then solicit about half of the issue's content from big-name writers. Then again, the magazine is free online, so...

Maybe I would feel differently if I was more impressed with the content. Nothing all memorable, really. One of the stories reminded me almost exactly of the work of a writer I used to know. She "secretly" thought she was much more talented than I, and I always found that sort of hilarious. I wish nothing bad upon this writer, but do look forward to the day when I am successful and she is stuck in traffic on the morning commute.

I also got American Pastoral for free because of a credit card trick I pulled. Please do not tell Amazon.


How about this--I played nearly 4 hours of Halo 3 today. How's that for wasting your time and life, and how do I ever plan to become successful if I do things like that? There is no answer for that one. My brother seems to look up to me when I play with him, and I love that feeling. Need it even. And I am afraid it won't last forever. OK, maybe there is one answer.


But hey, don't hate to hard on K-West. He's hardly the first to storm the stage at the VMAs. Remember this? Much more dangerous, and probably more rude. Though if I lost anything to Fred Durst, I'd probably climb something, too.

My fan mail used to be so diverse. Faithful readers would praise my recent work, send pictures of their pets doing crazy things, ask me for my egg salad recipe, but now it is all the same: we love what you write, but you really need to update more often.

Well, followers, I hear you. That's why I'm making a new covenant: I will update at least 3 times a week, or I will close this blog forever. If I'm not writing consistently, what's the point?

When I was younger, I'd write one or two longish entries a day, most of them about nothing. Those got more comments--and, honestly, were more interesting--than most of the stuff I'm producing now. I can get back to that. I've got to.

So, as a tribute to those something-out-of-nothing entries, here are five things about today.


1. I passed by a man on the street that smelled exactly like walking tacos. I was on my way to lunch, so my immediate impulse was to eat him. I did not. Good thing, too, because his shirt was covered in what looked like motor oil.


2. Remember the boff that yelled "you lie!" during our president's speech? It turns out he and his family have one-payer, government-run health care. Smooth move, Senator. The article goes on to say that he has called TRICARE (the stuff he gets) "a low cost, comprehensive health plan that is portable and available in some form world-wide." and "world class health care." He continues to hypocrite it up, saying "I am grateful to have four sons now serving in the military, and I know that their families appreciate the availability of TRICARE." Wow, you think? People like, you know, having their medical expenses covered? What a revelation. This guy is a pot.


3. I've been selling a few unneeded items on craigslist lately. This morning, an interested party sent me this email:

If I can pay in all cash, how low are you willing to go?

Here are the problems I have with this question:

-I seriously take issue with people who refuse to counter-offer. I already put a price on the thing; if you want to pay less, say what you can pay. Don't insult my intelligence.

-If he can pay in all cash? What does he think other buyers are offering, bags of grain? Half cash, half gaming tokens? Maybe I read too much into the tone, but it seemed like was trying to "cut me a deal" by offering to buy in American currency. What the hell.

-The ad said that the price I'd suggested was low. Significantly less than the item is worth. I responded that if he could pay soon, I'd take a little less than that. He responded with his offer: less than half of my second offer. I'm all for haggling, but this isn't a Moscow bazaar, guy. I advised him to take his cash (all of it) and put it somewhere private.


4. I am more and more thankful for my job every day. Recent graduates all over the place are taking pretty much any job they can snag, and here I have a salaried, not-too-difficult position that is somewhat in my field and also totally secure. It's also fun around 70% of the time. This place is a safe-haven for as long as I'd like it to be, and that rules.


5. I've been reading a lot today about different schooling styles. We're working on a story about free schools (in which students study basically whatever they like, and at whatever pace they choose, so I've been looking into all of it. I was shocked to find so many parents dissing the public school system. I'll paraphrase all of the arguments into one super-argument:

"No school is good enough for my child. (Some government person) has ruined all the schools here. Private schools are expensive and snobby. Homeschooling is the only good thing to do for your children!"

Listen, I don't have a problem with homeschooling in theory. But the fact is, it isn't so awesome in practice. Especially when they reach age 13 or so. Social interaction, teamwork, and dealing with the tough stuff like bullies and jerk teachers is what prepares you to succeed, not math by mom.

Can you name one person who was home-schooled K-12 and isn't "soft?" Me neither. To prove my point further, here is a list of "A-Z Homeschool Success Stories." I recognize only a handful of names on the list, and half of those handful were taught by private tutors. I hardly think that qualifies.

I think it shows some pretty serious arrogance when a parent thinks he or she can teach his/her kid better than a whole team of teachers and peers. Moms, dads, you're putting your kids at a serious disadvantage.


6. Hey, an extra item! Everyone in Indy go to Hoaglin's and get the "adult PB&J." Fresh-cut strawberries, ground peanuts, PB and preserves on whole-wheat, lightly toasted. Send thank-you notes to: theoriginalandrewclark {at} gmail {dot} com.

Today as a Stick in Bicycle Spokes

I want to throw an icy snowball at a stranger and hit them right in the bridge of their nose. Chew rare meat with my mouth open. Grow thorns and be held. I want isolation in the post-apocalyptic sense. I want to pull a tooth. Today is wrought-iron twisted by the elements into something obscene. Today is a lie you heard years ago and still believe. Today is a cannibal best friend. Gnash, weep, repeat. I am the unapologetic patron saint of the pitiful, the at-the-bar-aloners, the gluggers of good scotch. I am a vandalized zoo. Animals free from their cages, dumbfounded by each others' habitats, lashing out in bewilderment. There is protocol for anger, even rage. Same for jealousy and hate. But when a creature is off-kilter, unsure, thrown out of balance--everything is possible. From the dark grab-bag of instinct and action, there is no anticipating what the hand might come out with.

December 21


She left on the solstice

and ever since, I’ve been exhausted.

I fall asleep at lunch,

head pressed hard and red on the cafeteria

table, hand holding the fork that rests

in the rice pilaf. There is no one

term for my kind of heaviness. I step through afternoons

in a space suit, everyone eyes me

like I am the alien. Where is home?

The quarter-waxing gibbous. The harvest.

The blue. There are still moons I haven’t kissed

her under. Bareness, obviously. The easy metaphor,

the solar system as a sterile womb. When did the night sky

become impenetrable? Storm clouds in mourning, dressed up to grieve.

Loss is never singular. Often, the death of one star is the end

of an entire constellation.

“It’s all a draft until you die.”
–Ellen Bryant Voigt


For breakfast I had fruit crepes with cream cheese and toast. Steak and eggs. Biscuits and brown gravy. A grapefruit divided—sliced in midair and sugared over. It is all a draft until you die? Of course it is. Revision is constant—as endless as sex can seem, when you’re doing it right—and fundamentally self-propelling. The facts are relative things that aren’t half as important as Entertainment Value. I think I heard that on the news.

I read the words “Final Draft” and laugh. I think of 8th grade history class, a weekly paper on any significant event. What could we do but rewrite the past?

The truth is, I feel like I’m drowning. The fact is, I’ve been fighting for the waterline since I first put the pen to the page. Some days I’m in a rental chair, reclining with a mojito I mixed myself. Others, I’m barefoot, running for a Frisbee someone threw me. I always hope it was my father, but he’s revising, too.

Anything can be unmade. Kafka wanted everything burned. Dickinson lived at the bottom of a drawer. The best is never the best. It’s what floats up to the surface after being washed over, over, over.

For over a decade I’ve written the same poem in three hundred and forty-five ways. I’ve taken a red pen to every one. No one will say it, but we need it there. The carrot, rotting on the string, hanging out in front of our faces. If we caught it, wouldn’t we stop moving? Get a real job? Settle down?

The Night, The Porch

To stare at nothing is to learn by heart
What all of us will be swept into, and baring oneself
To the wind is feeling the ungraspable somewhere close by.
Trees can sway or be still. Day or night can be what they wish.
What we desire, more than a season or weather, is the comfort
Of being strangers, at least to ourselves. This is the crux
Of the matter, which is why even now we seem to be waiting
For something whose appearance would be its vanishing---
The sound, say, of a few leaves falling, or just one leaf,
Or less. There is no end to what we can learn. The book out there
Tells us much, and was never written with us in mind.

Here are some quotes by one of the bestselling authors of all time. I'm sure you'll see why.


Well, when I was 13, for my bar mitzvah I received my first typewriter. And that was special.


I used to get a haircut every Saturday so I would never miss any of the comic books. I had practically no hair when I was a kid!


I have a cheat-sheet for each one of my characters about their personality, the way they look, etc. So there is no possible way that I could have writer's block.


Read. Read. Read. Just don't read one type of book. Read different books by various authors so that you develop different styles.


I feel happy to terrify kids.


I guess I'm way too kind and generous, and a saint - if you can believe that!


Making my class laugh and getting in trouble. I was the class clown. [sic]





Robert Lawrence Stine, you are truly an inspiration.


All quotes provided by the sometimes ironically-named brainyquotes.com

Obama steps up, getting both groups' attention. He says that he will cut the area directly in half and give one part to each. One side says "OK." The other side says "No, please, don't cut it in half. Just give it to them." Obama awards the second group the Holy Land, because they are the real mom.

Then Obama has a ton of wives. The end.

Sometimes flowery and sweet just doesn't cut the personal pan pizza. A lyricist with genuine talent knows when to bring the filth. Here are five of my gritty favorites.

"Dodging armpit stench / aromatic..."
From Frame by Frame by The Honorary Title

I think Jordan decided not to like this band specifically because of this lyric.


"The matress creaks beneath / the symphony of misery and come / still we lie jerking back and forth / and blurring into one"
Second Best by Pedro the Lion

It was really difficult to pick just one Pedro lyric, but this won out after plenty of deliberation.


"If I swallow anything evil / put your finger down my throat."
Behind Blue Eyes by The Who

Oh the undertones.


"I spend most days putting off / that which can't wait until I'm knee deep / in my own waste."

Bed Abuse by Owen

Knee deep. Like, it's up to his knees, and he's...moving in it.


"It was rare to do much more than / simply mess around in the car / it was mostly mutual / masturbation."
In the Car by Barenaked Ladies.

Steven Page looks like this:



Enough said.

: - \ <---The Proverbial Long Face.


The Shimmy

"like if you're playing Clue, and it is really hard, and no one can figure out the mystery, and then your dad realizes he never put the three cards in the case envelope and instead just passed them all out. then anytime your family wants to play clue again, someone goes "don't let dad be in charge of the cards!" and everyone kinda laughs and winks at him, and your dad has a red face, and he's smiling too. and then, while you're playing, the family cat jumps on the table, and mom goes "looks like someone wants to be a detective!" and your little brother goes "he can be on my team!" and there is just so much laughing."


"every night at 2:20 am, nathan comes downstairs for a midnight snack. it is usually leftovers; occasionally it is ice cream or nacho chips. after he finishes his snack, cleans up and heads back upstairs, he always sees a dark ghost standing by his front door. it used to startle him, but anymore he is used to it. he's even started saying 'hello ghost' when he's reached the third or forth step. he's come to regard the ghost as his only friend. today, nathan lost his favourite black coat. tonight, his best friend will be gone, too."





"gentle jeffery burst into flames next to the telescope. people came running in towards jeffery! "please, please help" cried jeffery. two middle-aged ladies and a retired professor hit him with golf clubs for burning the telescope."


""yum," said georgie to margaret on their first date, "this sure is good soup." "i know," replied margaret, softly, "it's made of several different kinds of poisons and there are also small children in the recipe." the soup was so good that georgie could not stop eating. "what good soup." he said."


"there are six cheerful pigeons on a roof. "this is a nice roof," commented one pigeon. they griped together about the weather. one of the larger pigeons was a bomb."


"4:25! 4:25! said the alarm clock. jasper punched it. "ouch! that must hurt!" jasper looked in his closet and pulled out a....GIANT HAND!!!! "i must use this today!" the GIANT HAND told him where to go. "you must to go to mayberry street!" "ok i will" guess what was on mayberry street? the LAUNDROMAT! jasper and the GIANT HAND went inside, but poor jasper had to hold the door open for people. "GET OUT!" said the guy at the counter. "hey man, i'm just doing my laundry and you're yelling all the time at me especially when i just walked in the door" the GIANT HAND took jasper gently by the shoulder. "it's time." "ok" the counter guy took one look and BAM! BAM! BAM! actually there were only two BAM!s but it's ok that there are three but remember there were only two. "i love you GIANT HAND" "i love you jasper""




Some Videos.

Much has been made of the complexities and mystery behind Sigur Rós' lyrics. There is a rumor circulating that these guys are from Iceland, but I say that's a crock.

The truth is, these guys are just messing with our heads. If you listen closely to Glósóli, for instance, you'll learn that it's an entire song about a Chinese food craving. Here are some sample lyrics--see for yourself.

Glósóli - Sigur Rós


0:30-0:40 A ten-second yawn.

0:43 I want some food / after this day of dread...

0:56 And Carrot stew / ain't cutting it.

1:13 I have a goat small / (to goat) no, I won't hurt you.

1:35 There's only one thing... / where's that menu?

1:45 Oh, it's here!

1:57 Crab Rangoon!

2:00-3:40 (The narrator waits and waits, mumbling to himself about politics)

3:41 Oh, here is food!

3:55 Yeah, my food!

4:08 Oh yeah, my food!

4:16 Thanks man...

4:20 I LOVE THIS FOOD!

4:34 Oh YEAH! This FOOD! / Crab rangoon! Wontons too! / Noodle dish! Taste the squish! / I will certainly have leftovers!





You're welcome.

Cloverfield spoiler alert:

It turns out someone was just playing "Brain Stew" on really good speakers.

For the past month or so (maybe more) I've been celebrating the end of my college career by misbehaving. While the experts, with their academic offices and ever-wagging forefingers, would tell me I should be searching for a job, polishing my resume, thinking about the future and getting my affairs in order (that's what they tell the dying to do!), I've decided to go a slightly different route. That is, the class-skipping, late-paper-turning-in, overspending, Jameson-and-orange-juice-drinking, illegal-cigar-smoking, oversleeping, assignment-ignoring, good-TV-watching, trip-taking, concert-going, excuse-making route. The fun route, as it's also called.

What has come over me? A readiness for the future, I think. It doesn't help that I'm in limbo about so much of my future because I'm waiting to hear whether or not I'll be getting a certain job through Ball State for next year. The answer will determine so much of my future (whether or not I'll be in grad school, where I will live, how much I'll be making, when I can start a new job, whether or not I'll be eating in The Retreat every day...) that, without an answer, the future is pretty darn intangible. Until I hear, I'm more or less stuck floating around eating Cheez-Its and browsing Uncrate.

(In case someone in my family, or a potential employee, has come across this blog, it isn't half as bad as I make it sound. Exaggeration is an all-too-acceptable {and quite belove'd} literary technique.)

Still, though. I'm not quite the go-getter I feel like I should be.


What's keeping me off the mark? Lots of things!

1) My new bike, for instance. Stevi and I both got bikes, actually, and we've been riding them quite a bit ever since we purchased. Tonight, we even rode to Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner, which is just about 4 miles. That's a more serious workout than I've done in quite a while.

2) Online shopping. Thanks to my huge tax refund, I've had some money free up, even though I just bought the Sentra. Over the past week or two, I've purchased online from J.Crew, Express, Topman, SkinID, and McSweeney's. That's just what I can name off the top of my head. I also bought a sweet new backpack at target and I'm seriously considering ordering four of these for Stevi and I.

3) (I'm embarrassed to say) television. I've never really been a TV watcher (I've always been faithful to about two shows at a time, but otherwise went for movies or books instead), but lately it's crazy. I faithfully watch LOST, Important Things with Demetri Martin, Scrubs, Big Love, Breaking Bad, Flight of the Conchords, Entourage, Curb Your Enthusiasm, and (though I've taken a break recently) The Sopranos. WTF. That's too much. Thankfully, a couple of these shows just had their final episode. Here, my workload breathes a sigh of relief.

4) Books! Ever since AWP I've been working on probably 4 or 5 books at a time, switching back and forth like a fickle lover, perusing, browsing, and only occasionally hunkering down. While this is definitely the thing I feel least guilty about, it is no less time-consuming than any of the others. Who discerns between a good and a bad addiction?

5) Food. Geez, I love eating. I eat Stevi's cooking, I go out, I cook, I snack, I masticate whatever is in front of me and nourish myself into oblivion. Seriously, with my appetite, I'm amazed I get anything done.

6) I've been sleeping like a proverbial mo'fo lately. Probably from all the late hours spent doing everything above.

7-?) Working, going to various concerts, socializing, sexual exploits, cuddling, re-organizing, lazing about, pontificating, bar-going, etc.


This seems like I'm unhappy, but I'm really not. Quite the opposite, actually. I know my days of relative freedom are finite and fast approaching their demise. I may as well live it up. Until summer, when I'll be going barf-crazy trying to learn German in like 6 weeks, I'm toeing the line and cozying up to the bare minimum. How many more chances will I get?




(I feel like the guys who did this instead of getting out of the car to move the stick.)

The Charm Of 5:30


It's too nice a day to read a novel set in England.

We're within inches of the perfect distance from the sun,
the sky is blueberries and cream,
and the wind is as warm as air from a tire.
Even the headstones in the graveyard
Seem to stand up and say "Hello! My name is..."

It's enough to be sitting here on my porch,
thinking about Kermit Roosevelt,
following the course of an ant,
or walking out into the yard with a cordless phone
to find out she is going to be there tonight

On a day like today, what looks like bad news in the distance
turns out to be something on my contact, carports and white
courtesy phones are spontaneously reappreciated
and random "okay"s ring through the backyards.

This morning I discovered the red tints in cola
when I held a glass of it up to the light
and found an expensive flashlight in the pocket of a winter coat
I was packing away for summer.

It all reminds me of that moment when you take off your sunglasses
after a long drive and realize it's earlier
and lighter out than you had accounted for.

You know what I'm talking about,

and that's the kind of fellowship that's taking place in town, out in
the public spaces. You won't overhear anyone using the words
"dramaturgy" or "state inspection today. We're too busy getting along.

It occurs to me that the laws are in the regions and the regions are
in the laws, and it feels good to say this, something that I'm almost
sure is true, outside under the sun.

Then to say it again, around friends, in the resonant voice of a
nineteenth-century senator, just for a lark.

There's a shy looking fellow on the courthouse steps, holding up a
placard that says "But, I kinda liked Reagan." His head turns slowly
as a beautiful girl walks by, holding a refrigerated bottle up against
her flushed cheek.

She smiles at me and I allow myself to imagine her walking into
town to buy lotion at a brick pharmacy.
When she gets home she'll apply it with great lingering care before
moving into her parlor to play 78 records and drink gin-and-tonics
beside her homemade altar to James Madison.

In a town of this size, it's certainly possible that I'll be invited over
one night.

In fact I'll bet you something.

Somewhere in the future I am remembering today. I'll bet you
I'm remembering how I walked into the park at five thirty,
my favorite time of day, and how I found two cold pitchers
of just poured beer, sitting there on the bench.

I am remembering how my friend Chip showed up
with a catcher's mask hanging from his belt and how I said

great to see you, sit down, have a beer, how are you,
and how he turned to me with the sunset reflecting off his contacts
and said, wonderful, how are you.

Hey, jerks.

Not you guys, the freaking people who go to the grocery and leave their carts right next to their cars. It makes me want to blitz. There are probably 10 cart corrals in every parking lot, and one is never more than a few feet away. There is nothing worse (in the world, and life) than trying to pull into a good parking spot only to discover some pockmark has left their cart in the middle of it. It makes me want to grow a flamethrower arm and burn something innocent.

I found this picture while I was pissed, and it barely makes it any better.







OK. I should tell a nice story now, since I told a mean one. I like my car more every day. I hope this does not change when I have to make the first payment. Also, Stevi is cleaning the whole apartment as I write this. That rules.

I'm hungry, and I don't even want the Chinese food that I have.

Here's something great: I've had no hot water for three days. Today is the worst, because they had to take the water heater completely out of the apartment. I hate being dirty. This is how I feel:



(But more adult. Dammit.)

Just sat down to write my Top 11 Albums #7 about Make the Clocks Move by Kevin Devine, and decided against it. It has been far too long since I've made an actual post. Plus, everyone who is good should already know how much I love that album. Maybe tomorrow.

Today Stevi and I returned from a long visit at Nana's. Staying there is like active meditation. It clears my mind, nourishes my body (delicious, delicious food for the duration) and lets my soul breathe. I feel connected to something while I'm there, though I couldn't say what. My best self, maybe. Or my simplest self. Or the Earth. Or my past. Or God. The universal consciousness. Country livin'. My ancestry. So on, etc.

I bought a new car. It was pretty intense, test-driving, sitting there in the dealership, talking the salesfellow down, filling out forms, credit-checking, signing papers, negotiating further, extended-warrantying, stacks of paperworks like pancakes, like pancakes for an eating contest, figuring amounts, fussing over particulars, chewing at my cheek (the inside), ignoring my growling stomach, being amazed that four hours went by.

The hardest part, of course, was saying trading in The Black Plague. (NOTE: car pictured is not The Black Plague.) The sad fact was, though, that TBP was ready to go at any moment. I had a choice between watching it die a slow death and sending it to a place where I won't have to look at it or think about it while it suffers and eventually expires. Like many people who put their parents in nursing homes, I chose the latter. It was a fantastic run. That car and I (and various fantastic passengers) have crossed well over a dozen state lines, been accosted by quite a few police officers, gone airborne, narrowly avoided total annihilation on more than one occasion, slid over sheet upon sheet of ice, ignored countless tollbooths and traffic laws, and gone down more one way streets and through more red lights than I'd like to mention. It was a hell of a go, and it wasn't easy saying goodbye.

Car-purchasing left me feeling pretty adult. I signed up for mint.com, a pretty spiffy money-management site started by a family friend. It has since won various of prestigious awards, and the FF even got to sit on a panel with our president and discuss the current financial situation. I'm obviously jealous, and therefore full of hate. I guess that promoting his business on my blog (as well as patronizing it myself) is contrary to this intense emotional feeling, but hey, shut up. Anyway, now my iPhone bugs me if I spend too much going out to eat or shopping, and reminds me that I'm in debt and don't make that much money. It's what getting older is all about!

Looking forward to a pretty good tax refund this year. And if we get another stimulus package, I'm going to buy something frivolous.

Amazon just accepted my submission to The Crystal Gavel, one of the literary world's hottest up-and-coming mags. You may have to sort through a little bit to find my piece (they still haven't worked out the table of contents), but you can enjoy the work of other talented writers while you look.

Anyway. The whole time I've been writing this, I've been working at Motinis. I've not had any customers, but now I do.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1594743347/ref=nosim/uncrate-20

1. "I cannot wait to not be sick anymore."




2. "I don't know why, but I've spent the last couple days with a feeling of impending doom."




3. "For the past few days, I've been enormously hungry but nothing has sounded good."




4. "I need to visit Nana's house. Soon."




5. "I wish I could tell my sister that I think she's making a mistake."




6. "Who taught me that, when I disagree with something, I shouldn't speak up?"




7. "I've never not gotten a job I've applied for. I've even been offered jobs I didn't apply for. I hope the A/RHD job doesn't change this."




8. "I want to take my lover on a real date."




9. "I miss my younger brother; it's been too long."




10. "What I'd really like is a fish-hug."

How much of a let-down is Season 2 of Flight of the Conchords? More than I want to admit.

Sigh.

A few theories:

1) Bad Hair















2) A Physical Impairment









3) Secret Lesbian Tendencies












4)Looking just like a local rock star who is actually you, and not falling for it when a chick you're dating fakes blindness just so she can keep you around.





Thanks TV!

These things are a delight. London Fog Tea Lattes are the first new drink Starbucks has offered that is worth anything. I might actually start going regularly again. If you're fond of frugality, check this out. I think that "hacking" Starbucks drinks is more trouble than it is worth, but it does strike me as a fun bit of nonviolent protest, if you're feeling obstinate.

The winner of the Superbowl is Alex Baldwin.


Pretty good party tonight, JD made some good food, and the O'Haras have a killer house. The outcome of the game was not so hot. Boo Stealers.





Who gets the firing squad today? People that buy up tickets to concerts and events that they don't care about, just so they can sell them at way escalated prices. This should be fucking illegal.





These tickets were $20. I'm going to puke.

Luckily, Liberty Bowl in Downtown Muncie saved my week. Unlimited beer and bowling for $10. This was insane. And I was drunk.




See?

"The way to know if you've written desserts (as opposed to deserts) is that you must remember that with dessert, you always want more."
--A fat teacher I had once

How's that for encouraging obesity? Still, the lesson stuck with me. I never make the mistake of writing something like "I had to eat to deserts before I was satisfied" or "Bin Laden is hiding somewhere in the dessert." Mnemonic devices are wacky, because you carry them around with you whether you like it or not for most of your life. (Insert spouse/STD/Catholic guilt joke here)

A few months ago Stevi accidentally demolished her 1st generation iPhone. She quickly replaced it, because, let's face it, iPhones are just remarkable, but I thought we could get some money out of the smashed one. I listed it on eBay as a working iPhone with a cracked screen, and set the low bid at $80. I thought if she got at least $100 out of it, it would be worth the trouble.

As it turns out, there's a pretty high demand for 1st generation iPhones, because 3Gs aren't hackable. So, her broken iPhone sold for almost $250.

We were celebrating big time, until we get an email from the buyer. He thinks the broken iPhone is too broken. He wants a refund. Plus, he's from Germany, and his emails are riddled with German/English hybrid words that I couldn't make any sense of. He was ultra-pissed, in a way that only a non-English-speaking German can be. Two of my favorite lines from his collection of crazy emails:

"Hello. Yes, I have not made everything, IPHONE to REACTED!! the LCD CRACKED!!! I HAVE SAID 100 TIMES; DISPLAY DOES NOT WORK, FROM SIDE IHNEREN CRACK!!!! DEFECT!!! KAPUT!!!! DISPLAY THOT!!! I ASK TO THEM; OR TAKE THE IPHONE BACK OR A LCD SCREEN ME ASKS SEND"

"iPhone I have shopped for my children Christmas Present. And now everything broken :-("

Anyway, he ended up filing an official case against us, and I had to fill out all of this PayPal nonsense, and it was a huge hassle. PayPal takes so, so long to respond to anything. They requested more information from this guy until finally, finally, finally they deduced that he was either deranged or a liar. No refund for you.


In other news. In half a month I'll be attending AWP, which I'm hoping (perhaps naively) is going to help shape the next few years of my life in some way. I'm determined to make it unforgettable, so I'd better meet some good contacts, or I'll have to resort to other, less productive thrill seeking. I'm also going to be representing The Broken Plate, which I'm more than a little excited about. The launch in March should be pretty great stuff. In the meantime, I'm trying to submit to as many literary magazines as possible. A few of my options:





Deciding what to send to these puppies is not an easy task. After working as an editor of a lit mag for six months, I understand the process a little better. The formula seems to be: attention-getting but not obnoxious, fresh but not outlandish, wry but not self-satisfied, and who knows what else. The only thing to really do is write your best and send it everywhere. Whomever likes it will like it.


I was going to make this about twice as long but I'm incredibly hungry and also sleepy. Here's a lovely picture of Stevi reading: