Dr. Awkward is a palindrome. Minus the period and capitol letters.
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A friend got a tattoo of a typewriter on her bicep. The guy who put it on, inked it on, drew it on was named Ty Palotta. No lie. Quite the pun.
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I just came up with my new tattoo. It's gonna say "Cultural Appropriation." But I can't decide whether to put it in Hindi, Chinese, or Spanish. Seguro que no lo pondré en español. Ni pa pensar. Qué miedo.
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Odio el español de aula. En especifico, el español del aula donde enseño en East Texas. Extraño el español callejero (de México pues).
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Another tattoo idea: a row of all the houses where I have lived. Or a row of small maps of all the places.
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My new favorite word: hokey.
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Step 1: Bury the hatchet.
Step 2: It's water under the bridge.
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Come to my new party. A svelte smelt 'n' spelt party.
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The same friend with the new tattoo had a job where she had to call people and notify them that they had been exposed to syphilis or HIV. At the city Health Department. People who tested positive would do a long interview with her about all the people they had slept with. They'd give her lists of names and phone numbers and she would call them all to inform them.
She: I'm calling to inform you that someone you've slept with has syphilis.
Him: Who?
She: I'm sorry, I can't tell you that.
Him: This a joke.
She: Um.
Him: I know this a joke. Some fool playin a joke on me.
She: No sir, I'm an employee of the Health Department.
Him: Wait, wait.
She: Yes?
Him: You white?
She: Yes, I am.
Him: Oh, then I know this for real. I don't have no white friends.
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Happy Indigenous Peoples' Day.
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My friend with the tattoo said people loved to talk about their sex lives in detail with her. Also said gay white men always said no, for privacy reasons. Well, then.
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Pillows pies bed for pequeño. Grapefruit trails though littered puddled gutters. Swept that gutter days ago. And now. Northwest wind blows blustery moments in. Not a poem. Don't write poems. Or much at all.
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Feliz Día de San Giving.
Right
I'd rather not have this be a general whine about the decline and fall of everything.
- Paraphrase of Stephen Wasserman, former LA Times book review editor and supporter of translation in a speech on Friday at the American Literary Translators' Conference
- Paraphrase of Stephen Wasserman, former LA Times book review editor and supporter of translation in a speech on Friday at the American Literary Translators' Conference
Note to Self
Your first book of prose poetry and pseudostories should be called:
You're So Much Better Than Me
You're So Much Better Than Me
.
Because if you don’t, it’s like you won’t any more. It’s like if you sit under the umbrella once, then that’s it. You have to still know, and you have to do enough … to carry you over. You have to be in there because you don’t want to be just waiting by the edge.
From a story Fishing by Patricia Grace. The entire story is here at the Sweet and Sour issue of the eXchanges Journal of Literary Translation at the U of Iowa. More info on Patricia Grace, an acclaimed writer of Maori lit in English, is here.
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Because if you don’t, it’s like you won’t any more. It’s like if you sit under the umbrella once, then that’s it. You have to still know, and you have to do enough … to carry you over. You have to be in there because you don’t want to be just waiting by the edge.
From a story Fishing by Patricia Grace. The entire story is here at the Sweet and Sour issue of the eXchanges Journal of Literary Translation at the U of Iowa. More info on Patricia Grace, an acclaimed writer of Maori lit in English, is here.
.
Oops
.
Are you Presbyterian?
No, I eat chicken.
PRESBYTERIAN
PESBITERIAN
PESBETERIAN
PESCETERIAN
PESCETARIAN
Are you pescetarian?
No, I'm a Jew.
.
Are you Presbyterian?
No, I eat chicken.
PRESBYTERIAN
PESBITERIAN
PESBETERIAN
PESCETERIAN
PESCETARIAN
Are you pescetarian?
No, I'm a Jew.
.
Francisco Goldman in Houston
The acclaimed writer of fiction and non-fiction, Francisco Goldman, will be in town tomorrow evening reading from his new non-fiction book, The Art of Political Murder: Who Killed the Bishop?. He will read at 7pm at the Barnes and Noble at the corner of Westheimer and Voss on the westside. Francisco Goldman's first novel, The Long Night of White Chickens, was awarded the Sue Kaufman Prize for first fiction from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. The Ordinary Seaman, his second novel, was a finalist for the International IMPAC-Dublin Literary Award and the Los Angeles Times Book Prize in Fiction. Both of his novels were finalists for the PEN/Faulkner Award and have been translated into nine languages. He has been the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and a Fellow at the New York Public Library Center for Scholars and Writers, and he is currently Allan K. Smith Professor of English at Trinity College in Hartford, Connecticut. His fiction and journalism have appeared in the New Yorker, Harper's, The New York Times Magazine, Esquire, The New York Review of Books, Outside, and many other publications. He lives in New York City and Mexico City.
For more info on Goldman, there is an article from the LA Times here and an interview on Democracy Now! about his most recent book and the Bishop Gerardi murder.
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Let's. Rolled together across interchanges. This will be unknown again. 10:23 on Saturday night. You go home. Me too. I'll take you yes up 59 down 45 down 225. And suddenly through your brakeless years. Your heart had no brakes. Your car neither. All those years in Arizona. Lulled into dust and stone sleep. Arriving to California coast. Startled by leaves and trees. A yearning for regreening. You awoke on the coast. You slept through the night. Earth makes different arenas for. Let's keep going to Pacific rest.
These were the tears neither of us shed. These were the lights we passed.
Thankfully lacking in explosions. Outside or inside. Smell of gasoline and no finery. Exit at the cloudmaker. You said when you were small you called it the cloudmaker. Refinery tower spouts still make clouds. You say you have stories to tell that would stop trains. Yes. Bring plants out of the earth. Rain collects in ditches and gutters. This rain will wash away shame. Past.
Imagine. Your stories will make the clouds made by factories cry.
.
Let's. Rolled together across interchanges. This will be unknown again. 10:23 on Saturday night. You go home. Me too. I'll take you yes up 59 down 45 down 225. And suddenly through your brakeless years. Your heart had no brakes. Your car neither. All those years in Arizona. Lulled into dust and stone sleep. Arriving to California coast. Startled by leaves and trees. A yearning for regreening. You awoke on the coast. You slept through the night. Earth makes different arenas for. Let's keep going to Pacific rest.
These were the tears neither of us shed. These were the lights we passed.
Thankfully lacking in explosions. Outside or inside. Smell of gasoline and no finery. Exit at the cloudmaker. You said when you were small you called it the cloudmaker. Refinery tower spouts still make clouds. You say you have stories to tell that would stop trains. Yes. Bring plants out of the earth. Rain collects in ditches and gutters. This rain will wash away shame. Past.
Imagine. Your stories will make the clouds made by factories cry.
.
Best 25
So remember the New York Times post about the 25 Best Books (American books) since 1981? No, well, look here.
Well, now Fringe Magazine has this Project to decide an Other best 25.
And so go vote on their page of their favorite 25 books since 1981. Even though I spend as much time as I can reading, I have only read like three of them. Shameful. Or something. A reflection of the numerosity of stories published and good ones at that.
All these lists makes me feel like Dave Eggers in this interview with Entertainment Weekly, yes, EW itself:
I don't really urge anything on anybody. It's always kind of embarrassing — I always know there are better books, and better things to do with one's time than to read anything I've written.
At least I read Dave's Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genious. Though I couldn't afford a signed copy. Now I wanna read What is the What.
Well, now Fringe Magazine has this Project to decide an Other best 25.
And so go vote on their page of their favorite 25 books since 1981. Even though I spend as much time as I can reading, I have only read like three of them. Shameful. Or something. A reflection of the numerosity of stories published and good ones at that.
All these lists makes me feel like Dave Eggers in this interview with Entertainment Weekly, yes, EW itself:
I don't really urge anything on anybody. It's always kind of embarrassing — I always know there are better books, and better things to do with one's time than to read anything I've written.
At least I read Dave's Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genious. Though I couldn't afford a signed copy. Now I wanna read What is the What.
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