bike repair



  • my dad posted some photos of me on facebook. is this ok?
  • my career as a long-distance runner has ended, because I destroyed my knees by attempting to run a half-marathon while eating a super burrito al pastor every six miles. oh well; now I’m a “cyclist”. am thinking about selling my $50 mtn bike and buying a $50 road bike. lemme know
  • new artforum has a pretty great conversation b/w cory arcangel and dara birnbaum. I was particularly interested in their conversation about “obsolescence” — things that culture lays aside, like NES cartridges, that are supposedly obsolescent, that the artist (or someone else) can then pick up and make alive/vital/relevant again.


  • also nice to see another oberlin dude (cory was class of… ’99? and wasn’t jacob ciocci there around the same time?) in the same issue of artforum: Stefan Tcherepnin’s Top Ten! I find it annoying when other people talk about college in this way. Oberlin is special.

“Ignore all” (spell-check reference)

Welcome to the most peaceful page on the Internet.


Please, let the soothing cathodes snuggle you as close as you can manage. Let them breathe your air. The exhaust from their bassoons blows warm up your nose.

The night I found out you composed all of your poetry in MS Word, I was beside myself. “WHO AM I????” I wondered.

Saturday night I drank five beers and ate eight servings of mac and cheese in the kitchen. Between the cataclysmically running dishwasher, the beer roaring through my head, and the ceaseless clank of spoon hitting ceramic bottom, it was a deafening rush of noise in my kitchen. The undertow that steadily pulled me out to sea (a fitful, farty sleep) was D.T. Max’s essay about David Foster Wallace’s forthcoming unfinished novel, The Pale King. I had no idea that in the same room where he died,

in the garage, bathed in light from his many lamps, sat a pile of nearly two hundred pages. He had made some changes in the months since he considered sending them to Little, Brown. The story of “David Wallace” was now first. In his final hours, he had tidied up the manuscript so that his wife could find it. Below it, around it, inside his two computers, on old floppy disks in his drawers were hundreds of other pages—drafts, character sketches, notes to himself, fragments that had evaded his attempt to integrate them into the novel.

I don’t know if this is justification enough for his executors to publish the novel, but I was moved by the excerpt in the same issue (though surely I was wasted and moony), particularly in the context of Max’s piece.

death of the crippled ballet

This morning I finished Ian McEwan on Updike and started Hilton Als on Milk while eating a lox bagel and drinking a heavily sugared coffee at Java Supreme on Guerrero and 19th Street, occasionally glancing up to watch adults stride by in the rain. I was happy. I am Jewish. Last night I found out that the next New Yorker has an article by D.T. Max about David Foster Wallace’s forthcoming unfinished novel, along with an excerpt. Back in the office, I started reading Charles McGrath on John Cheever and then saw that I had only read page one of six and so decided to write a snotty little mournful little ‘blog-post’ in order to remind myself to finish it at a time when I’m not “supposed” to be working. More stressful work dreams last night. I was on a patio in some ski resort trying frantically to train a young female designer to make a spread for me — a magazine spread, I mean, doctor, of course, ha-ha, how much time do we have left? I have to cancel next week’s appointment–while the printers waited via sattelite uplink phone for us to finish. There’s more.