After the Revolution, when we all live in sustainable green skyscrapers, are insured, and publish our genius works of genius in the all-powerful well-paying collective literary magazines whose basic architecture Alec Niedenthal and I sketched out in the comments on Roxane’s post yesterday, and people like Paul Wolfowitz have all been eaten by wild dogs, we will all sit around and laugh about the Bad Old Days when the IMF’s solution to an apocalyptic earth quake in Haiti was to call for them to freeze public wages. Way to stay classy, neo-liberalism.

Gordon Lish is at the pulpit again this summer. “Center for Fiction, Twelve Mondays from June 7 – August 23, 5-11PM $2600 members; $2800 non-members.” Watch yoself.

Hey my little Lisbon doorknob: one has one’s house, where one might hum a song from a 1970s sitcom, one’s face gold for the stream, locking one’s doors with the lack of an erection, the erector sets no one would steal, then leaving, taking a sip every time one passes a crow on a fence, while another new rain dumps from the complicated sky, while you staple Clint Eastwood’s face over your own, while another sits on a bench and stares at the bridge, moonlight spiking off his belly, and that’s just the fiction in the new Alice Blue Review, which you’ll want, a want conjoining with your want of the Blue Collar Sun under which it takes place, and in the next seat over is the poetry section, where Jordan Stemplemann—among fine companions—burrows into you with the following: “No matter who / takes over the world, // they will build / within us one stiff // twin called astonishment, / unable to ever unlive.”

Andy Warhol’s 15 Minutes on MTV, including John Waters, Simon Le Bon, Bo Didley, Frank Zappa, Kevin Dillon, Debbie Harry, Paulina Porizkova, and Pee-wee Herman. [via largeheartedboy]

Finally, all Borges fiction collected. Like your kidneys, a local library, or a reliable bowl–this you need. [Edit–it has been out 10 years] [Edit–beer] [Edit, still read it, though.]

Take a Saturday evening—or make a bookmark for tomorrow’s hangover—to read the new Collagist, featuring the Gabriels Blackwell and Durham; the four names of Mary Jo Firth Gillett; the three names of Tina May Hall, Emily Kendal Frey, Reginald Dwayne Betts, and Alan Michael Parker; another Parker named Jeff, who’s called in to introduce that classic double punch of P’s, Mister Padgett Powell; and a bunch of other people who don’t fit into the moronic cleverness of the earlier clauses, including: Doug Ramspeck, Jennifer S. Cheng, Anna Clark, John Madera, Stacy Muszynski, and Angela Stubbs. Good stuff. Kudos to Matt Bell for another great issue!

Who is Marvin K. Mooney?

Paige Williams, a journalist, wrote a fascinating story about Dolly Freed–author of the off-grid classic Possum Living which has been reissued by Tin House this month. Paige self-published the story after many rejections and is accepting donations. I chipped in. I’m sure you’ll want to, too. ::: Tom McCarthy, author of remainder, on David Lynch’s films. Excellent thoughts. ::: And a half-good, half-Wall-Street-Journal Wall Street Journal piece on the state of the slush pile.

Today at Viceland, a chance to get another look at Michael Kimball’s excellent book, Dear Everybody.

This year-old “Quarterlife Crisis” meme article just stressed me the fuck out.  Even though the whole “I’m in my 20s and I don’t know what I want to do with my life” thing doesn’t quite apply to obsessive writer types, does it?  The problem for us is we know exactly what we want to do and we spend all our time doing it because we like to do it, but it’s not exactly a viable “career.”  So for us the question is… what the fuck is going to happen to us when we get old?  Where are you going to be when you’re old? Publishing flash fiction downloaded directly into the brains of ten people worldwide?