Thursday, May 29, 2008

Dinner



Artichoke & potato soup. Arugula, spinach, endive, & avocado salad with some sweet poppy seed dressing out of a bottle. Red grapes. Garlic bread & hot goat cheese. Pinot grigio.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Marxism

ING Direct not only has competitive interest rates, they also let you name your accounts!
Mine are Marx themed.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Book Review: The Post-Office Girl

I reviewed The Post-Office Girl by Stefan Zweig for Three Percent.

In short, I liked it. In long.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Dinner



Cremini mushroom turkey burgers with fig and white cheddar sauce and spinach on a bakery roll. Seared portabella mushroom gnocchi and apple cider asparagus with parmesan and truffle oil.

Friday, May 23, 2008

Bill

In and out of sleep, I was at first only dimly aware of the figures the approached my bed, their murmurs, their departures. The procession was endless and the voices soft. I struggled, crippled by my drowsiness, bound in haziness and sheets. I lolled about, twisting the quilt around me, trying to hear what my visitors were saying and unable to ask them. The bed was warm and it smelled of sleep. I pulled a cooler pillow to me and thrust the hot one away. I closed my eyes tightly and tried to listen, but I slept, slept endlessly. Hours or seconds later, their words drifted down to me, pushed through the rumpled blankets and made their way into my consciousness. See how he moves? First on his side, now on his back. Another voice. And now on his side again. And now his back. Yet another. He lies on his side. A third voice from the other side the bed. See now? On his back! The voices continued as I fell back into slumber, fell back out of that foggy world. Minutes or days went by and I could hear them again or still. He’s been on his stomach for some time. I craned my head to hear better. See him move? He’s on his back!.

Monday, May 19, 2008

The Razor's Edge

I have done stupid things. I have done things that have caused me much pain. I've broken bones in embarrassing ways. I have fallen down stairs. I once tried to tattoo myself on a moving train. I've eaten and drunk things that I have caused me acute discomfort. Now, I've been set on fire and tortured by an amateur.

Today, I went and PAID a woman to shave my face. She wasn't a whore, per se. At least not during daylight hours. She was perfectly nice or would have been if she hadn't been dragging a dull straight razor across my delicate skin. Basically, my beard was between her and the Chinese food she'd ordered for lunch.

She did not prepare my face. There was no warm towel. There was shaving cream, but only for a brief instant before the razor came out. The razor was such that it would have scarcely cut butter. I have tiny wounds all across my neck. I am slowly bleeding to death.

Very slowly.

After she had pulled all of the hair out of my face, she roughly wiped the blood and excess shaving cream away with (sand?)paper towels. Then she poured alcohol over my face and rubbed it in. That new, more precise pain was a welcome relief from the brutal attack I'd just survived. The Demon Barber (I know the name is taken, but it works here, too) proceeded to powder the raw and oozing wound that I used to call my face before taking my money. Scarcely was I out the door into the cooling breeze before her face was buried in her (similarly cooling) dish of noodles.

I am slowly bleeding to death.

Very slowly.

GREEN GRAPES!

Sunday, May 18, 2008

From an Al-Jazeera English message board

We Muslims Are Obliged To Speak Haqq (The Truth), Thus Please My non Muslim Brothers Dont Be Offended, Telling You The Truth Dont Mean We Don't Like You. We Love Our Christians, Jewish, Hindu, Sikh & All Non-Muslim Brothers. We Oppose Only The Satan Worshipping Zionists Illuminatti Secret Cults.

Sounds fair to me.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

An email from my mother

I just needed to get this off my chest.

We could learn a lot from crayons: some are sharp, some are pretty, some are dull, some have weird names and all are different colors. But they all have to learn to live in the same box.

This was at the bottom of someone’s email. It is bugging me. Crayons do not have to learn to live together in the same box. If they are my crayons, they will be scattered about. It should be:

We could learn a lot from crayons: some are sharp, some are pretty, some are dull, some have weird names and all are different colors. But they all are crayons.

On the other hand, we can’t learn anything from crayons. They are notoriously poor communicators.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

Louis

(thin lips)

We ate fried chicken with truffle oil.
I told him how freedom devalued itself.
He sang me a song about moonshinin'.
We drank cider.

When he left, he left hair in my shower.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

From the London Review of Books Personals

They say the pram in the hallway is the enemy of art. Not true. Astaroth, Threshold Guardian of the Infernal Plane is the enemy of art. Join me in my battle to rid this world of his Satanic intent by sending care-home vouchers to his long-suffering daughter and one-time sculpturing genius, 37.
box no. 08/06

I am the sharpest knife in the drawer. You’re the brightest spoon. Man, 38, Balham.
box no. 08/12

Man, 41. Not the sharpest sandwich at the picnic.
box no. 07/01

Women to 35 – you’re all invited to the party in my pants. It’s bring a bottle and, please, remember to remove your shoes before you step on the carpet – mum’s just had it cleaned. Stupid man, 33.
box no. 07/05

Saturday, May 10, 2008

Garfield Minus Garfield

Thursday, May 08, 2008

Rave On

Rave On by Buddy Holly & the Crickets makes me sick with melancholy. It is one of the saddest songs I know. Mr. Moonlight by the Beatles is equally depressing. So is Twistin' the Night Away by Sam Cooke. Actually, all songs are sad, but especially Rave On.

Tuesday, May 06, 2008

Jack

When Jack sleeps, TinyTERM dreams and when Jack blinks, the three stores of the Cooperative blink also. On our shelves, Jack breeds books like rabbits, if rabbits were bred on shelves, which they are not. But if they were, it would be in that fashion that Jack breeds the books. When a book goes missing, it is merely because it has slipped Jack's mind. Let us pray that he does not forget us; when he does, we won't be anything to talk about.

Saturday, May 03, 2008

Book Review: Memories from a Sinking Ship

I reviewed Memories From a Sinking Ship by Barry Gifford for The Review of Contemporary Fiction.

Pierre-Simon Laplace

We may regard the present state of the universe as the effect of its past and the cause of its future.

Thursday, May 01, 2008

Nick

Nick casts no shadow. He is everywhere and nowhere except when he is somewhere, like in the bookstore bathroom doing heroin. On the baby-changing table with a needle in his arm, Nick becomes again like a baby--awed, uncoordinated, and photophobic. Also antisemitic. He talks too slow and stares too long, focusing on the immediate as though it were the horizon and on your face like it's the first thing he's ever seen.

Last week, a dark wind took Nick away and his insubstantial body will never again pale our doorway.

From 23. Poverty: to Furius by Catullus

You’ve no sweat, no phlegm,
or mucus, or evil cold in the head.
To this cleanliness add more cleanliness,
your arse is purer than a little salt-cellar,
and doesn’t crap ten times in a year:
and your shit’s harder than beans or pebbles.
So if you rub it and crush it between your fingers,
you can’t stain a single finger:
it all suits you so happily Furius,
don’t despise it, or consider it nothing,
and cease to beg for that hundred sestertia
you always ask for: sufficiency is riches.

translated by A. S. Kline