your monkey called
Now that we’ve established that poetry is work, let’s move on to questions of productivity. How much should a poet produce, ideally? As much as one half-assed garden, planted by a person with a drinking problem, who did not read the directions on the seed-packets very closely. Elizabeth Bishop only ever wrote one poem, a villanelle about an elk breaking up with her (“The Elk Breaks Up with Me”), and if I may say so she did very well with it. Wallace Stevens only wrote five poems, and every one of them was insured for one million dollars, like a famous pair of legs. The greatest living poet, Nicolas Cage, continues to amaze us by never having written a poem at all.
— Patricia Lockwood is my hero.
Hi please put this on my tombstone because nothing sums up my era, spirit, and sweet sweet style better than this.
I think this San Francisco show in 2 weeks is going to be really fun. There’s a good chance I will be wearing a tuxedo.
Black is the color of coal, ebony, and of outer space.
— The first sentence of the Wikipedia article for “Black”
Christmas Movies are Dumb
Yesterday I tweeted:
Michael Delaporta responded:
I wondered what other folks could come up with, so I asked, and made it a contest. I received a bunch of responses. They were all delightful, but here are my favorites:
A solid, simple suggestion:
A sinister edge:
The simplest and best of the punny submissions:
AND THE WINNER
John Roderick, the handsomest ukulelist.
Halloween is a go.
I have a face and I’m not afraid to use it.
100 Years of Powell’s
2013: Powell’s Books
2018: Powell’s Books and Gifts
2023: Powell’s Mostly Journals
2028: Powell’s Creative Shared Workspaces
2040: Powell’s Ocean Crisis Supplies
2060: Powell’s Murder Stadium
2090: Powell’s Human Leather Goods
2113: Powell’s Books
Maybe Ben and I should have joined the Jetski Squad at BoatParty.biz. A handsome group. But we make our beds and then we lie in them.
HEY MA, I MADE VARSITY ON THE JETSKI SQUAD
I remember once, in college, riding on the back of a flatbed truck in a float depicting Interfraternity Cooperation, or something. We who were riding were supposed to be shouting out invitations to a big charity do of some kind. Promoting brotherhood, I believe. But the driver of the truck found himself to be enjoying truck driving so much for its own sake that he went faster and faster, so that we clarion callers in the back were reduced to hanging on for dear life and shouting, “Bobby, slow down!” The medium is the message. The notion of fraternal organizations’ fostering breadth of brotherhood was flawed to begin with—there were separate Jewish and non-Jewish fraternities, there were separate fraternities and sororities, there was a separate organization for “independents” (people whom no fraternity wanted), and there were no black students in the whole college—so the statement we conveyed as we hurtled through the streets made sense, as a matter of fact. Instinctively, Bobby may have known what he was doing.
— Roy Blount Jr. : “Gothic Baseball”
You can get any Lego set under $10.
My 6 year-old daughter:
How much is this one?
OK we can get it.
Sleepy Behind the Wheel?
Hey drowsy driver! Here’s a tip to help you wake up:
Think about the fact that you will certainly die, and that the time and place of your death is known only to God. Who doesn’t exist!
San Francisco: This Friday, we’re back with another FUN TIMES WITH FRIENDS. This month: classic video games, funny special guests and more treats!
Last show was sold out—call ahead to reserve spots, doofus.