Had dinner last night with a friend and mentor who brought along his daughter who's tenure-tracking in English at Backwater State. She's trying to convert her doctoral thesis into a book some university press will publish, teaching four courses a semester, three of them intros and comps. Her thesis was on constructions of masculinity in pulp hard-boiled detective novels and my friend had told her about my take on Elkin's Bailbondsman (which gently and lovingly subverts the genre) and she was in town for Giftmas and wanted to meet me, but he must have told her also about this shitty blog because as soon as we sat down all her questions were about blogging: she's seen other academics' blogs and was considering something similar.
She was curious about the advantage of an academic blog - her dad must have suggested I had some insight into academic blogs, whatever the fuck they are - not a shitty pseudonymous blog, which she's had for years. That? yapping about shitty blegging? was excellent yap! That? was the first time in months, if not years, I spoke out loud and listened to out loud a funny smart discussion about blogging, and it was giggles hearing words come out of my mouth instead of endlessly looping in my head or filling up pages in a fucking moleskein. It may surprise even long-time readers that I think about this shit all the time.
Then we talked about Obama and the clusterfuck, finished our pints and went home.
- It is never too late to not really give a shit.
- The progressive torture of Bradley Manning.
- It's been surreal.
- One and the same.
- Word association.
- Obamapostasy. Ever since reports about African-American disillusionment with Obama started I've wondered what stereotype-laden appeasement bone he'd offer.
- UPDATE! Mobamapussy.
- Pastor Sanctimonious says it's in Mobamafucker's political interest to make your grandmother eat catfood.
- From critique to communism. (This is one of the blog's the daughter mentioned as a model for what she was considering. She asked me if I had any interaction with Dean. Um, no, I'm not worthy.)
- Heh. And for the record, I've been making that tug-rope argument forever.
- For the children.
- Dimitar Berbatov is..... The Continental.
- Butterflies, lagomorphs, orbs.
- A (re)statement of purpose.
- Some Olson.
- Still need to buy me something for Giftmas?
- A world in your belly.
- UPDATE! Le chant de la mort.
- UPDATE! Flowers in December.
- You never come closer.
- Alex Chilton was born 60 years ago today.
AS I CROSS THE HELIOPAUSE AT MIDNIGHT, I THINK OF MY MISSION
Drunker than Voyager 1
but not as drunk as Voyager 2 I rode my blue
bike back through the darkness
to my lonely geode cave of light
awaiting nothing under the punctured
dome. I had achieved escape
velocity drinking clear liquid starlight
at the Thunderbird with a fingerless
Russian hedge fund inspector and one
who called himself The Champ. All
night I felt fine crystals cutting
my lips like rising up through
a hailstorm. And the great vacuum
cleaner that cannot be filled moved
through my chest, gathering
conversation dust and discharging
it through my borehole. During
one of many silences The Champ
took off his face and thus were many
gears to much metallic laughter
revealed. Long ago I forgot
the word which used to mean in truth
but now expresses disbelief. So
quickly did my future come. You who
are floating past me on your inward way,
please inform those glowing faces
who first gave me this shove I have
managed to rotate my brilliant
golden array despite their instructions.