The weekend in Portland, Oregon, had been our first vacation without kids in almost five years, and I'd had this vision that my wife and I would feel unshackled and adventuresome again.
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.)
Where the fuck are the collected plays of Ron Allen? The police have won, that’s where.
I had my bags packed and was getting ready to leave with two insane-seeming girls who offered me sex in exchange for a ride to Cleveland when a few patients stopped me and essentially pushed me into the lecture hall. I don't know why I didn't put up more of a fight -
I googled “Karl Ove Knausgaard AND Nicholson Baker” and didn’t find much. A review of My Struggle from The Monthly, an Australian magazine, compared some of Knaugaard’s reflections to “Seinfeld’s
I remember Marc said, you’re wet just because of the humidity.
Can you teach an eighteen-year-old trauma?
Pretty girls appeared from behind huge wooden poles below the boardwalk.
We ride in pairs to the stars and look up but flourescent rainbow strips make the everlasting dim.
Cockroaches
This was a sign as far as I was concerned. The high water mark. The North American standard for being a shitbag.
A plague of the poor and dirty.
So when we started to see
