Had some minor eye surgery today. Negotiating the New York City subway with no depth perception (they taped an aesthetically displeasing patch to my face) is tricky business. Would it kill them to use some Snake Plissken apparel? Anyway, I started Interneting one-eyed artists, and revisitedsome of the timeless cartoons of James Thurber, one of which I share now with you all, my beloved dual-eyed brethren. Beware of hippo, nature’s most aggressively hungry creature.
As a follow-up to Michael Schaub’s riotous post about hitting the publishing motherload the other day, I though I’d share this guy’s project, which could possibly make him rich, but will likely just result in a wasted year of life. It also ties to Sam Pink’s last post, because the writer ‘relates’ to Julie Powell. Nice.
I was just over at the Morgan Library, checking out this new exhibit, William Blake’s World: “A New Heaven Is Begun.“ The show contains engravings, illuminations, original diaries and manuscripts, letters and an audio clip of “The Tyger,” read by none other than Jeremy “Die Hard: With a Vengeance” Irons. It is awesome, and it is there until January 3. If you love images of biblical torment and poignant reminders of God’s implacable wrath as much as I do, this show is not to be missed.
What would you do if your favorite author (living) punched you right in your face, and then beat you into a coma for good measure? Sue? Have them put in prison, where they might not ever write again? Or pretend like it didn’t happen, in the hope that said violent wordsmith would continue to produce uninterrupted the works that you love so much?
This is the position in which Patton Oswalt’s character finds himself in his new, fantastic film of loserdom and obsession, Big Fan. Kudos also belong to Michael Rapaport, for his spot-on portrayal of a loudmouth Eagles diehard.
August 31st, 2009 / 1:13 pm
Nicholson Baker’s quirky latest novel, The Anthologist, is comprised of failed poet Paul Chowder’s ruminations on poetry and how unrequited love for it has essentially ruined his life. Through it all, though—the rejections from Paul Muldoon, Chowder’s lady friend leaving him, the failure of his floundering flying spoon poems—he clings to the words and lives of Roethke, Bogan, Swinburn, Keats and the rest with a tenacity not seen since Bob Backlund’s crossface chickenwing rampage. It has actually inspired me to start reading poetry again, which I haven’t done regularly in some time (any recommendations?). All his talk of olde timey poets has also pushed me to check out Richard Holmes’s The Age of Wonder, a lovely book exploring the connection between gentlemen scientists of the day and iconic poets such as Wordsworth and Coleridge. Dudes were making enduring discoveries and creating timeless art long before they could even grow a proper pre-Victorian mustache! All very impressive. I suspect the era’s precociousness had something to do with all the frock coats, shoe buckles, pantaloons and widespread leeching. God save the Queen.
August 27th, 2009 / 12:28 pm
She lifted an eyebrow. “You want a truce, do you?”
“Yes, most particularly in the bedroom.” His fingers inched toward the small of her back, pausing to draw clever little circles over a spot where she was extremely sensitive.
Damn him for knowing about that spot, she thought as she arched involuntarily beneath his touch. Her heart hammered, telltale moisture gathering between her thighs.
“It’s not as if we’d be breaking any rules,” he pointed out with husky persuasion. “Quite the contrary, in fact, since our union is sanctioned by the laws of both God and man. So why deny ourselves? Why not enjoy what pleasure we can find?”…
In a devastating move, he stroked his hand over her naked bottom., then slid a pair of fingers deep into her aching core. Her spine arched, instant bliss flooding her system.…
And he was right, she did love it. And she would be devastated if he stopped. But he had to know that already, since her body was quite literally weeping from the ecstacy he’d given her, and was giving her still.