me, i like one on one dances



squash lasagna

I am officially in Ashland for a week. Here's what I want to do: see my friends, eat pilgrimage at a predrawn list of incomparable restaurants (already down: Morning Glory), wander around the red and spread out light of a Western mountain town for a while, get a Lot of Writing done in Bryan's and Willie's house while they are at their own work, go to The Beanery, which is not at all a good restaurant but for which I have sentimental whirrings, generally indulge in the nostalgia I never allow myself because it's annoying to reward your own memory for simply existing, see Synechdoche, NY a third time (check), maybe visit the chocolate factory, play Bryan's guitars, feel okay about the rain because the rain here is comfortable, not made of steak knives, which it's made of in Massachusetts. There. It's always good to end on a fact.




NOÖ [9]NOÖ [9]NOÖ [9]
NOÖ [9]NOÖ [9]NOÖ [9]
NOÖ [9]NOÖ [9]NOÖ [9]


is this a sitcom or a sycamore?

Kendra Grant Malone tagged me to say seven things about myself. I like her list because they are all facts. Normally I hate talking about myself.

"'I hate talking about myself,' he said, reading it out loud."

So here are seven things about me that are all quotes from shit I have already written. Yes, Depression-era conservation values.

1) "Why is Kenneth Koch still dead? He's the only one I miss."
2) "I've never been that good at taking naps."
3) "Do you dream in verses? No, I dream in consumer reports."
4) "I want my lovers back inside my closet like my favorite coats."
5) "I want to sing like a taxi cab."
6) "I've considered buying Tazers as a gift for all my friends."
7) "When I turn my face under the cold faucet, I am trying to divorce my head."

Tags to seven blog people:

Bryan Coffelt
Alex Burford
Jack Christian
James Yeh
Heather Christle
Evelyn Hampton
Rachel B Glaser


not a commercial for bravo potato chips

My short short "Crock" is up on Pequin. There's a whole bloc of listeners both internal demons and postal workers who are, like, "It's about time he wrote a story called crock."

Thanks Steven & Pequin team.

Tomorrow I'm off to the West Coast. Seeya there.


we're changing our heads to mean "slightly off"

My friend Jack Christian just started a blog. What you need to do is go visit it and read his poems. They're this side of cayenne hot with sledding down the ice hill in your socks thrown in. As I endorse barbecue sauce, sheepdogs, mustaches, sipping whiskey and anyone who plays the banjo named Papa Clyde, so do I endorse the poems of Jack Christian.


if i win a printer i'll print you a picture; if i win a t-shirt i will when in your vicinity wear a shirt or not wear a shirt whatever be your will

Nerve has picked my essay as one of their Top 25 For 2008. Now they are letting people vote for their favorite 10. In the spirit of my unflagging competitive drive, I am asking you, honeysuckle readers, to vote for me. You should vote for me if you like me, because I might win a t-shirt or a printer. You should vote for me if you hate me, because it will mean more exposure for one of my most embarrassingly confessional pieces and possibly a Dramatic Stain on the Legitimacy of my Career. Maybe you should even vote for me if you like Uriah Heep, who is mentioned in that essay, and who--if I'm not mistaken--is not mentioned anywhere else on God's internet.



what is with the internet and offensive fish?

I have a new collage piece from MC O up at the venerable Shampoo. Other contributors include hotties like Patrick Duggan and Jordan Davis, plus a monkey from Randy Thurman, who has an old man in the new NOÖ, out soon.

I read MC O again the other night and felt like it was written by someone else. I like it. I am proud of it. It will clear up a lot of misconceptions about rural Northern California's "personality," which is not an oxymoron, not if you try hard enough, like if you paint a snake on a cow. Puff a dart into a cow. Paint a snake on it. Rachel Ray. Who cares about personality. Whole Foods doesn't show up in MC O. I'm just not that kind of kid.

My heart's been feeling weird lately. Spinning out and drifting to the corners. Here in the pit crew, we're like "it's Talladega, motherfucker, wake up, drive left, what are you doing, that's the grass" but my heart thinks the driver's seat is a dentist's waiting room. My heart's got his helmet off. I don't even think he's got his foot on the clutch.