Blogfarm, blogfuture, blogheart, blogtown, blogtrain, blogcap, blogcane, blogclone, blogclown, blogstop, blogpound, blogtrap, blogcork, blogcow, blogcrown

…anyway, this morning as I was walking into the office, I am Jewish, I am “all traveled out,” not going anywhere for the holidays, what about you, skeleton-crew people in the office are doing LOTS of shouting stuff out to each other, feeling their oats, it’s OK, it’s kind of bugging me, I do it as much as anyone, I am a hypocrite, but please stop talking to me, I am trying to write about my life on a free website that I maintain, please do not speak to me (Nota Bene: I am not talking about you, McMüller, everything you have said today and every day is perfect, seriously, please do not stop talking) (everyone else, you must stop talking)

anyway, as I was walking into the office, there was a young woman posed semi-confrontationally on her bike, gazing self-consciously into the closed hipster Design Beyond Reach store next-door, we did not make eye contact, her face was poised in a self-conscious semi-angry mask of seriousness, the one that says “I am feeling confused and I know a total stranger is regarding me  in a public space; I need a shield of total seriousness to protect me from embarrassment as I gaze into this twee, shuttered shop.”

Her expression was overwhelmingly serious, which is why I came close to laughing out loud when, with terrible concentration and gravity, she removed something from her bag, which could only have been a cell phone, but in fact, as I sauntered by with perfect posture and generous love in my heart, I recognized her removing from her bag a pack of———-Dentyne Ice! She was self-consciously producing a stick of gum! This woman was a rookie undercover cop. My heart went out to her. It stays out with her. Except somewhere, by now, I know she’s speaking out loud, and, despite myself, only because I’m trying to concentrate, I want her to stop.

•*•*•*•*•||||•*•*•*•*•

I want to conduct a roundtable discussion that I’ll title “Slapstick on a Pig: New Feminist Humo(u)r(s)” with Lisa Hanawalt and Lauren Bans. I will moderate, but my “moderation” will just be Hanawalt and Bans mocking me. I will “sell” the interview to an online magazine.

•*•*•*•*•||||•*•*•*•*•

I have been meaning to say HEY THANK YOU to everyone who laughed politely and didn’t throw acid/beer/vodka-tonic in my face at the Make-Out Room earlier this month. In particular: I couldn’t have asked for better volunteers from the audience. Total-stranger hilarious woman with empanada, I’m looking at you. KUDOSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

I have a cold, this is a blog,

there’s work I’m supposed to be doing but I’m home sick, I have a cold, I’ve been clicking on lots of things, maybe I will go back to sleep soon, it’s 8 p.m., but rill quick just wanted to say

via @magicmolly I discovered the internet writing of Lauren Bans, who it seems like if I went home sick with my laptop more often I would have been a fan of hers for much much longer, instead of just tonight.

Two encounters with pop culture I’d  had and forgotten about that Bans wrote about and made me happy to have encountered if only to appreciate her take more fully (I have a cold):

  1. I watched three-quarters of 200 Summers I mean 500 Days of Summer (approx. 375 Days of Summer, I guess) on a plane recently. We landed before it finished. Bans’s quick take (“emosogyny“) on the movie is awesome (but I wish she’d mentioned the Garden State/Shins scene, maybe it’s not as relevant as I want it to be)
  2. I was sitting in Atlas cafe the other morning with Gerhard Richter’s Daughters, Atlas has a weird selection of old magazines, and we were idly checking out GQ‘s profile of January Jones and I made a half-coherent unfunny observation  that Bans makes doublecoherently and funnierly here, I am grateful, I have a cold

dish-nug

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ogG2k5DhCp8]

If one travels deep enough into the interior of an inside joke, its limits dissolve. The joke’s boundaries recede and become as distant and penetrable as the atmosphere of the Earth. Alfe liberates its viewers and launches them into an untethered and euphoric inner space.

—Quailty Norwheast,
The Emotional’s Guide to the Internet Videos
(forthcoming from Garabedian Books, Spring 2012)

Cornea Lucida (Orange Julius)

SUPER FAT DUDE IN A HUGE RUSH: I don’t have time for this conversation, what do you want

DIMINUTIVE FEMININE IMP: I just wanted to know how you felt today

SFDIAHR: I couldn’t really say

DFI: What about now?

SFD: Nothing has changed. I’m the same. Less busy now

DFI: Does “bumble-bee tuna” have real bumblebee meat in it?

S: Yes

DFI: What’d you do last night?

S: I was at the Miami Bart Fare

D: In New York?

S: Yeah, A-town

D: What does A-Town stand for again?

S: Nothing. That’s just the name: “A-Town”

D: It doesn’t stand for “Ass-Town” or “Andrew-Town” or something like that?

S: Nope. A = A.

D: OK… Ready to eat?

S: I ate already

D: What? We had plans!

S: And I—had Unbearable Urges.

D: Well, come sit with me and have a whiskey while I eat. I’m starving.

S: OK. Did you read Dwight Garner’s review of the Larry McMurtry’s new memoir? He quotes McMurtry’s “long held belief that age doesn’t favor the novelist.”

D: That means you should write your novel immediately. Tonight.

S: Yes. Otherwise I will get old and my “fiction” will grow pallid

D: who knows, maybe it’ll grow “pellucid”

S: Unlikely.

grumpus

BLOGGING IS A POINTLESS ACTIVITY/////////////

HERE ARE MY POINTLESS THOUGHTS ON BLOGS//////////////////

A GIANT SANS-SERIF WHO CARES DESCENDS UPON THE CITY, CRUSHING EVERYTHING THAT IS NOT AN ADORABLE ANIMAL OR AN ATTRACTIVE WOMAN

M.A. ORTHOFER’s UNSWERVING GROUCHINESS ABOUT BOOKS AND BOOK COVERAGE ALWAYS MAKES ME HAPPY. I’M NOT SURE WHY. PLEASE “STAY TUNED” FOR A 400,000-WORD “BOOK-LENGTH ESSAY” WRITTEN BY ME AND MY ANTHROPOMORPHIZED SPIRAL-BOUND NOTEBOOK (WITH AN ANTHROPOMORPHIZED ALL-CAPS “ANTHROPOMORPHIZED” SCRAWLED ON THE COVER) INVESTIGATING WHY M.A.O.’S UNSWERVING GROUCHINESS ALWAYS MAKES ME HAPPY.

I LOVE THE PHRASE “AFTER THE JUMP”

[EILEEN MYLES IS SEMI-LOVABLY GROUCHY IN THE COMMENTS SECTION HERE (thanks to Gerhard Richter’s Daughters for the link)]

is it true that reading all-caps text makes you, the reader, feel assaulted/exhausted?

(have you read the new Padgett Powell novel-in-questions yet?)

do u find all-craps (“craps” being just-invented slang for kute-lee miz-zpell’d all-lwrcse) equally exhausting, but in a different way?

WHEN SHE IS IN COLLEGE WILL YOUR DAUGHTER STUDY THE WAY “THE INTERNET” HAD LOTS OF GOOD SEX WITH “LANGUAGE” IN THE EARLY 21ST CENTURY?

WILL YOU NAME HER BETHANY???????????????

I’m going to mention this blog on stage at the makeout room a week from today, on behalf of the Rumpus dot net, I am “mediumnervous”

Oh, fuck!!!

I will attempt to perform an erotical, dialogic jam session in the style you may be familiar with from this website. So if you’re in town, and you like dialogic jam-sessions, do come along! I am a chubby, affable acid casualty! I have severe night blindness!!!

[Leave a comment on this blog post for half-price tickets!]

[Why hasn’t this dog emailed me back yet??]

Eros and Pedagogy

Terrifying Internet weekend here. I can’t stop. This is the most intense it’s ever been. It’ll be the same thing today. This amusing James Wolcott blog post reintroduced me to Cristina Nehring, whom I hadn’t heard about since I gave a presentation in college inspired by her 2001 Harper’s piece “The Higher Yearning.” (In retrospect, it’s kind of weird that I gave that presentation in a class on “Teaching and Tutoring Writing Across the Disciplines.” If I weren’t two hundred pounds overweight at the time, I wonder if the professor would’ve interpreted it as a “warning signal” that I was sleeping with the students I was tutoring.) (I wasn’t.) ••• Speaking of “narcissism,” there’s no way to acknowledge this ego-bastingly lovely shout-out—from a real writer I read regularly with pleasure—without bringing the bad luck of the autoaggrandizement-aggregator upon my head. But I must acknowledge it; this is what the Internet is for. It’s now folded and tucked safely into the leather medicine bag that hangs round my neck.