I’d love to read a book at a bar but every time I see someone doing that I’m like FUCK YOU NERD
Salt Lake City Bar Conversation
|Him:||I hate it here.|
|Me:||why don't you leave?|
|Him:||Because I love it here.|
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.
Black is the color of coal, ebony, and of outer space.
Christmas Movies are Dumb
Yesterday I tweeted:
He’s just woken up from a 10-year coma…on Christmas Eve! How will he get all his shopping done in just one day?!
Michael Delaporta responded:
This December, Kevin James is… Last Minute Micky (This film has not yet been rated.)
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:
Tom Hanks is…“Dashing Through”
O holy crap! Adam Sandler knows when he’s sleeping and knows when he’s awake! And now he has to Deck The Malls!
A sinister edge:
“Nor Sleet Nor Snow Nor Dark Of Night.” And it stars Liam Neeson. And he’s a mailman. And someone (Santa?) has his daughter.
Paul Rudd is…CHRISTMAS STEVE!!! He was thirty…now he’s 40! His wife remarried and his kids have a new dad!
The simplest and best of the punny submissions:
Bruce Willis, “Buy Hard”
AND THE WINNER
“I Feel Better, By The Way” starring Woody Allen.
John Roderick, the handsomest ukulelist.
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
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.