Sunday, April 10, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
I think in every post I reference a bad pop song or unpopular vocalist. This probably won't change, and right now I'm absolutely dying to drop Glen Medeiros but I just won't. Or will I? Or did I just? The games we play.
I think I like being embarrassed more than other people do. In fact, I know I like being embarrassed more than other people do, because most people don't enjoy being embarrassed whatsoever.
At this stage in my writing life, I try not to compare myself to famous authors, because that's generally a pointless, grief-inducing strategy, but as I approach thirty my worries about my literary shortcomings are heightened to the point that I wake up sweaty thinking holy shit, Flannery O'Connor was only ten years older than me when she died and even boring writers I don't care about like Junot Diaz were starting to publish at twenty-seven and man oh man I'm not as young as I used to be, or think I am. But then there are total badass weirdos like Grace Paley who didn't publish until their late thirties, which gives me another decade, but decades fly by as they say. And I know I'll never be a Joyce Carol Oates, and I wouldn't want to be, and most likely I'll end up a Ronald Firbank, or an anonymous monk who transcribed segments of Beowulf and imho turned them into Jesus-speak, or maybe even an Aldo Buzzi if I'm lucky, and by lucky I mean perseverant. The point being I need to punch myself in the face and try harder.
Also, LA's pretty cool. I drank my first iced coffee of 2011 there, but fuck if I'm going to count it. This fine New York morning I scaled the stairs in the New Science Building to drink the yuppiest iced coffee in town, and right now I can't think of any better way to spend four dollars than delicious caffeination, which is not a word, and the idea of making up words is really dumb unless you're David Foster Wallace, who should have read this blog because listening to "Rhythm Nation" would totally have given him the fortitude he needed to not kill himself.
Sometimes I ask myself why the J. Crew factory online store is only open on weekends, but then I realize I know exactly why, and feel embarrassed for thinking about the J. Crew factory online store in the first place, but since I like being embarrassed I continue thinking about the J. Crew factory online store, and smile.
And next time: dealbreakers.
And, in the near future, an -ly adverb-free post. It's like Oulipo all up in here! Constraints. Challenges. Life being a highway and all.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Thursday, February 10, 2011
You Can’t Ride That Man, He’s a Ghost Man
We were married beneath the auspices of a rollicking coaster, our hair spun sugar in the gusty lurch of overhead cars—the splendid screams, the raising of desperate hands, the suckling on spoonfuls of frozen raspberry lemonade, the scent of rapidly-generated fried doughballs that exploded in our mouths, our hands. I flipped his bangs with my free finger, and repeatedly we reeled through Monster Plantation until the bedraggled animatronic shag mammoths retracted their acrylic claws. I spread even sandwiches, intercepted afternoon calls, rigged extraordinary windsocks, noteworthy backsplash murals, but it wasn’t long before David met his ghost boyfriend behind the washing machine. Pinching my flesh into shrunken shirt dresses, selvedge denim, I began to launder away, in coin-operated machines, to achieve that desired delicate softness, light lofty warmth, while David spoonfed his ghostman chocolate ice cream, watched it dribble down his transparent esophagus, occasionally prying fingers in, to taste. Alone, I watched gumballs spiral down intestinal shafts, waiting for a pink, settling on recurring green, stale, unfit for bubbles, belabored, jaw-throbbing smacks as my legs dangled from the behemoth dryer, vibrating, pulsing imitation radiance. The bras and sheets so dank, but in front of me a freckle-breasted woman with serrated teeth airing clean purple towels. Flapping and flying, buoyant in the warm milky din, her mouth rounded in anticipation of aftershower. STOP, I pressed, releasing my towels from tumble. I held them, smelled something like my skin in the folds.