I guess for like 10 years I’ve been coming to the computer to begin the day almost every day. I wake up to it, it is there. The machine has buttons that allow interaction with the system on a controlled level, meaning unlike humans it will not waver unless it finds errors or accrues age in hidden crap in such a way it can hardly work with the new sizes of the files of programs that run the programs that make the days go.
11. Kevin Wilson short interview at The Short Review.
I cannot imagine a question I’d ask that would have an answer I’d be happy hearing.
10. Money. FC2 gets cash! Oh, and there is a 25% sale on For Whom the Bells Toll (now $58,500). Even Shakespeare couldn’t make money with all this internet bullshit, waaaaaaa.
9. Best title, best profile ever.
8. Dude prints out an 1818 edition of John Keats’ book Endymion on New York’s first espresso book machine. Wow.
375,000: Hi, I am vapid. Lady GaGa’s boyfriend (a nightclub manager/long-distance runner/deejay/certified personal trainer/semi-pro bowler) is a notorious drunk. He is also really fit. His blog here. Now he is writing a weight loss book called “The Drunk Diet.” OK.
They are to each other after and on the flower near the crackling fire next to each other but when she looks she’s no longer looks at him. Looks at him. She’s not there looks at him. No longer on, she’s not there, the lone floor of Freeman’s living room and/or the opera stage where the deafening noise, rather, from our crowd’s spoke-woken her. She must have passed, missed, slipped out, slipped, must have hurled herself in the path of a hurled pointy hat. The crowd’s on their endingly feet singing neverendingly songs over and over, the song Cassandra beguttoned a day or so ago.
Oh Reuben, oh Reuben, offstage jumping: keep it going, yes yes, keep singing, keep it going. But she’s jumped and banged and heaven’s sake and sang enough for heaven’s sake, was just pointed-hat-hurled on stage for heaven’s sake, hurled in the pointed hurled hat with a head.
The crowd sobers when the loss of their leader is lost from the strange of the onstage. They file, the crowd, out of our theater seats whistling like a bird-caller army in their cars, near their dinners, at their desserts, within dreams, out from deserts, under oceans, sleepwalking-whistling to kitchens preparing two egg in the morning salad sandwiches.
Freeman prepares himself and his components, the components of the egg salad sandwich at two in the morning with his kitchen around him, tea kettle whistling. Whistling.
No longer whistling. Can you barely? You’ll need to look closer: Cassandra fashioning at Freeman’s kitchen table, the square one, eyes open, a mug of tea, ghost roses parading and the donkey playing a cello.
Well, our favorite big-bad-wolf-bookstore Border’s spun the wheel, and now, they’re filing for bankruptcy.
What does this mean? Does it matter?
Smiles of the Unstoppable is a 60-page collection of 34 poems, each one about a page to two pages long. It’s a really nicely designed book. Magic Helicopter Press released it on January 1. (Magic Helicopter, of course, is the press run by HTMLGiant’s own super-productive Mike Young.) At first glance the cover image appears to be a kid mid-puke, but if you keep looking you’ll see what it actually is — a kid bobbing for apples. The poems are similar. READ MORE >
This photo was taken on my 16th birfday.
The New Yorker has the same giant bullseye on it that anything that has risen to the level of cultural significance will. It sits at the top of the news chain alongside the New York Times, but its volleys are more focused because it doesn’t publish every day, and instead of shotgunning hundreds of stories a week into the world, it offers four or five high caliber rifle shots. The day a new issue comes out, you’ll hear one or three of the major stories as a headline on NPR or CNN or the networks or even ESPN (the magazine has lately been taking aim at the violence football does to the bodies and minds of those who play.) Also, the numbers: It has the broadest circulation of the few remaining smart people magazines, and because it is the most prestigious magazine in the world and one of the best paying, it can have its pick of writers. It serves, therefore, not just as a mirror to American culture (albeit from a usually-lofty and Eastern vantage point), but also as an influential shaper of American culture. Among its readers are the some of the most powerful among us, and, like it or not, power gets to do the greater share of the shaping. The New Yorker has the ear of some of the shapers.
I stopped subscribing to the New Yorker for three reasons. First, it’s expensive. READ MORE >
