Boyish Pursuits
The ocean is a junkyard of sheet metal
with headlight eyes and grillwork teeth,
wave after rusted wave dragging hood
emblems and hubcaps to and from the beach
like so
Watching the musical Annie is something like a rite of passage for redheaded children. I’ve met so many carrot tops in my life who grew up humming the tunes of Charles Strouse and Martin Charnin,
Earlier this year, Tobias Carroll interviewed me and asked, “Your previous book, How to Predict the Weather, had a blurb from Botch/Narrows vocalist Dave Verellen. Has there been any hardcore that’s
We tell each other the names / of our dead. The cities we live in // are gnawing then burying / the cadavers of opulent dreams.
A few months back, I got the opportunity to (once again) indulge the teenage role-playing geek inside me when I got a short-term contract job editing game materials for Paizo, the company
When you love someone who won’t love you back, that is your full time job.
David Shields: Every artistic movement from the beginning of time is an attempt to figure out a way to smuggle more of what the artist thinks is reality into the work of art.
In the summer of
Liking the world is not easy, though sometimes it is / a large wave that carries you.
Gene is fluent in Klingon, comfortable even with the tricky irregular conjugations of the stative verbs
Please go read the reviews for this movie on The Onion, the pissant caboodle that now passes for Roger Ebert.com, and Ain’t It Cool News, yeah, them too, for some reason.
At first sight the line, nearly invisible but sometimes catching a ray of sun through the clinging water droplets, ran parallel to the brown water’s surface, from the tip of the pole held by the fisherman standing in the shallows out to unknown depths.
But you know, all of us prose writers in the United States have to deal with the shadow he casts and the work he left behind.
Roxana and Robert are in therapy because they argue: about the baby, about the laundry, about therapy, and about therapy, too.
One morning I wake up and there are over thirty new texts on my phone, all from him. While I was sleeping, we got into an argument, made up, and then started fighting again, all without my knowledge or participation. Right now he is breaking up with me.
let’s start with my most pressing question, one you haven’t answered IRL: WHY DID YOU TURN DOWN BRAD LISTI?
Simon Pegg would kill for a beer. Will. Has. Is. Over and over again. An hour into The World's End, halfway through a pub crawl he's been waiting twenty years to finish, he engages in a beautifully
Before, the possums’ noise had been an angry hissing, but now their voices were becoming sweet, even musical, the world of them trilling and humming into their endless, private night.
“My son was murdered last year. His bride murdered him.”
Hmmm... When Butcher Bear was murdered, he was probably cutting meat.
You can’t ban my books for saying this shit because no one bought them anyway. Some guys have all the luck.
How they say something doesn’t wink at an audience, this caws its eyelids off. What we got? Mad Men? True Detective? Those shows are about acting. (Sometimes about writing in service of plot. Oh, True Detective, almost, so close until the final explanation cribs us all.)
