I am in Russia and will be gone for a while

Lots

There are many things to do and say. There aren't enough hours in any day, fuck. Sometimes I wish I'd get hit with a bout of insomnia. Jake Adam York, editor of Copper Nickel, asked me to help spread the word about CN's year-end sale. So you should head over to their website and pick up a subscription, or some packaged copies. This is a very nice lit journal, one that's not afraid to take some risks, and is beautifully produced. In recent issues you can read stuff by Blake Butler, Noah Eli Gordon, Joseph P. Wood, Nate Pritts, Bob Hicok, me, and lots of lots of lots of others. For writers, this is a good journal in which to publish your work, and--as you no doubt already know--it's a good idea to read the actual issues of journals where you might want your own writing to appear. Go pick up some copies.

The end of the semester is upon me, and I've really slowed down with reading, but picked up on watching television (I feel my brains oozing through a drain somewhere), because it's easy to watch TV while grading papers. But I finally--finally, finally--I finished Shellie Zacharia's Now Playing.

There are some real gems in here. Personal favorites include "Uno"--the very first story--"Why This Isn't a Good Story to Tell," "Luckily, Lucy Sims Has No Stamps," "After Carlos, the Continuity Expert . . ." and I have a favorite favorite. But among these I've listed so far, I really love the poetic sensibility and the hilarity of "Luckily, Lucy Sims . . ." The story is a little like a catalogue poem, where narrative isn't the overiding force pushing you through the story. You read these unsent letters and a portrait of Lucy Sims's life--especially her shitty marriage--emerges. Very nicely done. I also love the hint of despair in the director of the movie in "After Carlos . . ." The details of the story are also cleverly dispersed, and funny. Clocks in scenes are not consistent, nor hairstyles, clothing, etc. All because Carlos the Continuity Expert ran off to Costa Rica because he's some kind of amateur ornithologist, and the director of this movie is obviously in love with him. Unfortunately, my details on these stories are a little shaky right now because last week, when I was giving a final exam, I finished the book, and now I cannot find it. I know it came home with me--at least I'm pretty sure. If not, then it's sitting at the desk in that classroom. I'm sure no one will have stolen it, because it's become abundantly clear over this semester that no one at my college reads--ever. But I can describe my favorite story of this collection from memory--although I don't remember the title. A mother and daughter are driving home from the grocery store and the mother realizes she's forgotten something and debates turning around for it. Meantime she thinks about the daughter's acid-fueled conception. Eventually, the mother gets pulled over, after giving her daughter a lesson on how we're supposed to act, morally. This story was probably one of the most subtle and beautifully-expressed I've read in some time. Maybe when I find my copy--or buy a new one--I'll be able to tell you what that title was. But, really, you should buy yourself a copy of this fun, fun-loving, fun-to-read book. Stupid fucking final exams.

Thank

god, or whatever, for the fact that while when I was a kid I desperately wanted the G.I. Joe Aircraft Carrier toy for Xmas, I never got that shit. It was fucking expensive. My parents were smart.

Review up at The Rumpus

John Madera wrote a generous--I mean, I feel embarrassed by the nice things he says--review of Prose at The Rumpus.

Thanks John. You may get Xmas gifts from me.

Today was the first day that it has really felt like late fall/winter in Atlanta. Cold, sunny this mornign, but gave over to clouds in the afternoon. I had a hard time running. Everyone else was having a good time. fuck them.