Showing posts with label Heather. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Heather. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

It’s the Weight of a Book



As a lazy bibliophile, I’m sucker for books about book collecting because it’s easier to read than do it. So I read John Baxter’s A Pound of Paper. I think I prefer Larry McMurtry’s Books, but Baxter’s book has a nice light conversational tone and a European/Australian angle that’s worth the reading…if you care about those rectangle things that used to be all the rage with readers.

I say that I’m a lazy lover of books and not just reading. In fact I don’t care much for reading. But books as artifacts never get old. But I’m just not dedicated. One of Baxter’s through-lines is his obsessive search for the works of Graham Greene. I haven’t completed collecting one author. I haven’t went after all the Pulitzer winners or gotten all the books titled starting with the article “The.” But I’ve stumbled onto an 1897 Civil Service Report here and an 1871 six volume set of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire there. But my gem is a first edition/first printing of Emily Dickinson’s Third Series (the first posthumous publication of some of her poetry). Anyway, the point is it’s haphazard.

Much like this group of my favorite tidbits:

“Most librarians don’t like books any more than butchers like lamb chops.” (I don’t agree with this one, but it’s funny to stereotype).

“I’d stumbled on the great rule of science fiction: ninety per cent of it is crap.”

“Still to come was the ritual of ‘shelving’—placing the book with the now-lengthening line of Greene titles, in chronological order, with a lightly penciled note on the flyleaf giving the price paid and the date purchased.”

“In 1937, Greene notoriously reviewed John Ford’s Wee Willie Winkie, making disparaging remarks about Shirley Temple, then just nine years old. Neither Greene nor Night and Day anticipated that Twentieth Century Fox might sue for libel on Temple’s behalf.”

“[Dick] Cavett—or at least his researchers—latched on to the fact that [Edward] Gorey drew the covers for Doubleday’s paperback reissues of Henry James.

‘What do you think of James today?’ Cavett asked.

An expressionless Gorey replied, ‘I loathed every word he wrote.’”

“What the trade calls delicately ‘anthropodermic bindings’ are rare but not unknown, though, for obvious reasons, nobody is in a hurry to admit they own them.”

And one of my favorite parts of the book is an appendix where Baxter asked book people, writers, agents, publishers, etc. to list the book they would save if their house were on fire. There are some great answers but perhaps the best is where Baxter talks about the limited edition of Fahrenheit 451 that was bound in asbestos.

I imagine that I would go for Dickinson in that case, but if time permitted, I would grab in my other hand the Tales of Mystery and Imagination by Edgar Allan Poe with Illustrations by Harry Clarke, which Heather and I bought to celebrate our first wedding anniversary (the paper anniversary after all). See I’m a softy.

Thursday, August 12, 2010

Me on MicroHorror

So my flash fiction "I Love Medusa!" is up on MicroHorror. Because Heather thought "Giant Panda Monster" was about her, I accidentally didn't share this one with her, but she ended up reading it on MicroHorror. And it turns out it's about her too, which I deny. Sure she claims she won a costume contest by dressing up as Medusa, and sure she claims she told me about this, and sure she claims she showed me pictures. But I don't remember that. And I certainly can't be held responsible for what my subconscious does.

Monday, March 15, 2010

Brick

No, it's not that Ben Folds Five abortion song. It's a reading. It was last Friday night so you missed it unless you were there or were watching the streaming video, in which case I'm sure you enjoyed it. Good news, though, they'll be more I hear and you should watch out here. I think.

Anyway, I happen to be in Nashville area because of Heather, and I saw the word about the reading so we headed out. It was put on by Todd Dills of THE2NDHAND and Peter Cole of Keyhole Press. The reading was worth it. Jason Jordan started it off and read a great story you should look for in the future at The Northville Review, though you'll miss his deadpan delivery (also he has a better rundown of this reading). Then, Eric Durchholz in a bloody shirt (fashion, not murder, I think) read from Heartless. Lydia Ship rounded it out with two fun and poignant flash fictions, one of them made Bank of America change its overdraft policy--check out the other one at Night Train. Then, Todd Dills and the three readers round-robined on the theme of building with brick. Good stuff.

In related news, Heather very much liked her Husky mug of cafe au lait at the Portland Brew.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

How Many Poisoning Stories Can There Be?

So it's Thanksgiving break and I'm with my wife (formerly known here as Heather) visiting the in-laws. And we also visited one of my favorite places on earth: McKay's Used Media (or some such) where you take in the books your tired of and the cd's that no longer have any relevance whatsoever and they give you credit to get more books that you might one day tire of. I'm wandering the creative writing reference aisle, and I see this catchy title Howdunit: The Book of Poisons. It's part of the Writers Digest Books on how to get your crime facts straight. I actually have the original one about police procedure and criminal acts but a whole book on poison? How many stories can one write where someone gets poisoned? Naturally, I had to have it, but then I got distracted by Norman Mailer's The Spooky Art and forgot to put it in my basket. Though I failed to get me a copy, I thought it would still make Thanksgiving-appropriate reading.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

I Have Been Carred


I hated cars well before it was cool. Not for any earth-saving reasons, I mean the supernova-ing sun's going to take care of this place soon enough, right? But just the general resentment--all I wanted was a way from point A to B and I get saddled with a constant source of nuisance. And I'm not a fan of speed. I'm a fan of slow. Of porches. And god knows I'd never buy a new car--a racket if ever there was one, paying for the car-salesman aggravation and instant depreciation.

So naturally, the other day I bought a new car. I blame Heather, who so loves cars she has a pet name for hers which I won't reveal because out of context it sounds dirty...I should probably just not bring it up. Also, I blame the last junk heap that hauled my ungrateful self around which died before it could claim any of that cash for being a clunker.

Anyway, we got an '09 Elantra Touring. Here's my review: it's nice.

Monday, April 6, 2009

NatPoMo v. NaPoWriMo

Not since sitting about the large conference table in grad school and unselfconciously spouting the term PoMo (postmodernism, natch) have I had such fun as April. I get all aflutter just thinking about bugging Heather with the term NatPoMo. And then I heard about National Poetry Writing Month...NaPoWriMo. Haha.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Apocalyptic Banana Cannibalism


If you've read these ramblings, then you know the obsessive eye I cast over bananas. For example, you learned that most of the bananas we eat are clones of one single banana. Or something like that.

Well, now my friend Karen has revealed the unsubstantiated truth that human DNA is 40% similar to a banana. Now, also being a paranoid. I can only take this information and assume that something terrible is going on here. To begin with, if we are this similar to bananas and we are eating bananas, then aren't we essentially committing cannibalism? If we're eating clones of one banana and we are 40% of that banana, then aren't we all 40% of one another? If so aren't, we eating ourselves?

I needed help, so I Googled this, and the top 4 or 5 results varied the percentage from 40 to 90% shared DNA. But one site cleared it, saying it's sequencing, not composition that matters because since we're all made of the same stuff, we would be 100% similar to a banana, looking at it that way. So we are all bananas.

But then I remembered the BBC report that said that Googling something twice creates the same carbon impact as an electric tea pot (it is BBC, afterall). Google has let me down again! You can Google it. Wait, don't. Because of the global warming it will create. Killing all the bananas--most importantly the bananas that are us.

I need a paper bag....

Monday, October 13, 2008

Know When to Fold Them


Over the weekend, Heather drug...I mean had me willingly escort her to another TN wedding. It was a good time though unseasonably hot and strangely quick by some standards. We stayed at the Bunkhouse Inn on the River, and the next morning as I was reading my bible (I'm teaching Ruth for a class...not that I don't normally read the bible in the morning...) and sipping my coffee by the river, a burly man in a checkered shirt stepped out on to the adjoining porch. His name was Tim, and he asked if I fished. After disappointing him, we talked about the local sights, and he directed me to Clingmans Dome, even showing me on a map on his laptop while singing the praises of wireless Internet and cursing his forgotten wireless mouse.

So we (Heather and I, not Tim and I) went to the top of Clingmans Dome, third highest point east of the Mississippi, and since I've never been west of the Mississippi, I was very impressed. Also while we were there, we walked a short bit on the Appalachian Trail and the Mountain-to-the-Sea trail, where we saw a sign informing us that the next shelter had been closed due to "aggressive bear activity." Naturally, we turned around and ran the other way.

Going back through Cherokee, I convinced Heather to stop at Harrah's casino by offering to bankroll the excursion. I'd never been to a casino. Aside from the lung incinerating smoke and the infernally distracting lights and noise and 80s muzak and the soul-dead people mindlessly pushing buttons over and over with those cards stuck in the machine with a cord clipped to their body as if they were IVed to the machine and clicking the morphine button again and again, hoping for the sweet release of death... Aside from that, I had a great time...because I won. That's right; I took those suckers. For $4.25. Yeah, I'm a natural born gambler. Heather, however, wasn't born lucky and lost $4. But that still leaves me 25 cents up. I'm thinking of quiting my day job.

Monday, September 29, 2008

Confined Spaces


So over the weekend I dutifully followed Heather to one of her friend's wedding. Marriage, what's it good for? Am I right lonely and sad people? Anyway. The shindig went down at a summer camp. And we played the part of campers crashing in sparse cabins and dancing in the dining hall. Good times, especially for me since I never went to summer camp. So I got a mini-adult version.

It also made me realize what Clue and Saw II have in common. They're both movies of dubious quality that I enjoy for the simple reason that they trap strangers in a confined space. It has sadly taken me forever to articulate this love of the confined space genre. It comes at a time when I'm showing Night of the Living Dead (the original, of course) in class--there it was all along.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

kiss :-*


My girlfriend Heather wrote the title of today's post. Kids these days with their symbols. Luckily she doesn't text message. But she does an inordinate amount of Facebook bumpersticker. She wants me to take that off, but I won't. I'm sorry you had to see that. We normally don't fight in public.

Sunday, May 11, 2008

Banana in Santorini


So thanks to Heather and her banana lecture I did not go hungry today when faced with a green banana and unable to peel it the right way. I flipped that sucker over and opened it from the bottom. That's right, I'm as smart as a monkey. Here's a picture of the blue monkeys fresco in Santorini:


Tuesday, April 15, 2008

I Respond to Heather Responding to NatPoMo

That's right, Heather gave a thoughtful and impassioned response to my criticisms of National Poetry Month. To which I will now respond. Here it is:



Monday, April 14, 2008

HEATHER responds to NatPoMo

We have a very special guest blogger: Heather of banana fame...and my lovely girlfriend. She will be responding to my NatPoMo bits and showing everyone that I am silly and frivolous. Please welcome Heather:

It has recently come to my attention that my boyfriend is spreading dissent about National Poetry Month through this blog. *sigh* Where to begin? I suppose where Craig does in his NatPoMo post. (I really do hate that.) Some argue that National Poetry Month spoon feeds watered down words to the masses. I would say that’s inaccurate. Some really great stuff is getting put out there in honor of the month. Check out the Poetry Everywhere project where animated versions of accomplished poems new and old are being broadcast on PBS and public transit systems. True, it’s not T. S. Eliot, but the featured poems are sometimes funny, sometimes sad, and hopefully make people think.

And what’s wrong with poetry having a general appeal? Throughout my public education experience, April was pretty much the only time my teachers could take a break from state-mandated test-prep curriculum to talk about poetry. And because I grew up in the buckle of the Bible Belt, it was really “safe” poetry. The first poetry books I bought and discussed with other writers were by Maggie Vaughn, the poet laureate of Tennessee. Her poems have rhyme and meter. They’re about country music and growing up agrarian. Her target audience is retired ladies’ book clubs. But I loved them. I even memorized some of them. Maggie Vaughn taught me to appreciate poetry, tuned my ear to it, and, in truth, showed me what not to do with rhyme and meter. My point of this trip down memory lane is to say that we all have to start somewhere. Some of us have to begin with poetry that has the comforting sing-song of nursery rhymes and narratives we know before we have the confidence and desire to dip our toes into the deeper waters of academic poets. The trick is fostering that desire in readers which is what National Poetry Month aspires to do. But props to those people like Charles Bernstein and Jim Behrle who comprehended the metaphysical ramifications of Ezra Pound’s Cantos on the first read.

And speaking of Jim Behrle, the comic strip frame Craig has featured really pisses me off. Why on earth would a poet discourage people from writing poetry however good or bad it may be? Regular people writing poetry is what makes it culturally relevant. No one gives a shit about a bunch of academic elitists telling them what’s good and what’s not and aren’t they stupid not to see it. Based on hearing the same kind of diatribes during the supposed question and answer sessions at AWP, I can only guess that some poets express frustration with their own work and bitterness toward publishers by tearing down others.

About the question of what restricting it to a month does for poetry, well, I wish poetry was celebrated year-round, especially if my poetry’s in on it, but like most things in America, it’s all about the benjamins. Believe it or not, poets don’t make a lot of money, and it’s primarily poets spending money on poetry. Therefore, my theory is it’s a better use of funding for poetry-loving organizations to band together and really get the word out there for one solid month than to bleed marketing dollars to preach to the choir for twelve. Hopefully, folks will get hooked on the good word that one month and demand more the rest of the year. I hope it with all my heart.

*******************************************************

Stay tuned for my response.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

In Praise of Anti-National Poetry Month


So it's NatPoMo! Heather hates it when I call it that. But she also hates it when I talk about PoBiz (that distinctly academic animal where poets swap influence for prizes and positions). Naturally her frustration only encourages me to sing my praises to NatPoMo louder.

Listening to Weekend America, though, keyed me into those who do not enjoy our god-given poetry month. These critics, chief among them Charles Bernstein, say that NatPoMo is a sham that does a disservice to the poetry it ignores because it says to the public most poetry is difficult though there is some good, "easy-listening" poetry out there that wont hurt your head too much, a kind of Flintstone's vitamin poetry. This approach hurts challenging poetry but also the poetry it promotes because it sells it as facile and safe. It also smacks of condescension to give poetry a month as if without it the art form would disappear from irrelevance (Note: there is no National Film Month). Consider for example that the other celebration months we honor like Black History Month or Women's History Month have their critics who say why relegate the achievements of African Americans and women to only one month a year? Why consign the celebration of poetry to one month?

Also with the recent dangers of poetry exposed, can we in good conscience continue to push this art on people? Personally, it's worth it just so I can say: have a happy NatPoMo, everyone!

(pictured: A cartoon called "Stone Cold Poetry Bitches" by Jim Behrle.)

Sunday, March 30, 2008

Warning: Poetry WILL Kill You!

I bring you sad tidings from an article in the Guardian by Marc Abrahams on the life expectancy of writers. Here are the depressing results:

"The Cost of the Muse: Poets Die Young, paints a mathematically ghoulish picture. Poets drop off earliest, Kaufman explains, but authors in general are not a long-lived bunch."

Heather, nnnnnnnnnnooooooooooooooo...


Thursday, March 27, 2008

CPCC Reading and I Am Not Deaf


Okay. So I was going to be all literary and blog about the poetry reading, but Heather has forced me to face my aging.

First, we blog the CPCC Literary Festival (oh wait! I mean, the CPCC Arts Festival because after Irene Blair Honeycutt left they gutted the literary bit and threw in some other arts). Since there are fewer lit events and I have the hell schedule this semester, I only got to A. Van Jordan's reading, which was well worth it and gives me a little hope for the festival--the sparse crowd cast doubts on that glimmer. Beyond the fact that I have a special place in my heart for people who use an initial for their first name--so many people drop it or think its pretentious to hold on to that initial and to them I say, screw you, that's my first name and it's not going away. Anyway. A. Van Jordan gave a great read with personas from Einstein to Richard Pryor.

Anyway, so that was all literate and whatnot. But then, Heather goes on and on (Heather resents this representation) about this noise kids (kids these days!) are using for cell phone ringtones because it is at a frequency too high for old ears to hear, so they could be sitting in class and get a call without the teacher knowing it. First, as a teacher--those bastards! Secondly, I was very afraid I would not be able to hear it and thus old and thus closer to death, etc. But I heard, thank God Almighty, I heard it. That's right I am not old. Or I am at the very least not deaf. You hear that Death! So here is the noise.

Just kidding, here's the real noise. If you can't hear it...you my friend are old. My condolences.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Stampede!


So I’m in Tennessee with Heather for Spring Break. It wasn’t quite spring because when we drove out here there was snow on the ground. But we made it, and after visiting three bookstores and the bicentennial park (view of the TN state capitol provided), I was given the quintessential Tennessean experience: a night of line dancing.

Fear not, I did not, in fact, dance in a line or otherwise because many people and things would have been injured, not least of which my pride. It was called Stampede (or the Pede by the regulars), a “Dance Hall and Saloon.” We got there early enough for the girls to get in free—$6 bought me entrance and all the two-stepping and domestic beers I could want. Though want is often relative. At first, the dance floor remained empty except for the occasional couple whirling in and out. The place picked up soon enough. Fueled by countro-pop songs or one-hit-wonders from the 80s, many, many white people repeated the same several steps over and over. And many lessons were learned.

For example, old guys are creepy. One middle-aged fellow dressed all in khaki with weighty gold rings and necklace danced nonchalant with one hand in his pocket while a gray-haired, wrinkled senior citizen wouldn’t sit one dance out in his “Your village called and their missing its idiot” shirt that he changed out of later in the night for one advertising the local college “MTSU.”

Lesson two, the business principles of strip clubs are applicable to other establishments pretending at more morality. Stampede gave change in two dollar bills, a strip club trick to double any tips. They also dispatched a number of scantily clad girls through the crowd with neon-colored shooters. Not to mention, the strip-club stares on the faces of the guys circling the dance floor where college country girls were going wild.

Perhaps the most important lesson (other than people the world over find strange ways to take up their time and attempt to touch one another) is that line dancing is not always in a line. Many of the dances have small lines of say two people dancing in a revolving circle.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

A Book Saturday and the Sad Literary South


So we got back from Borders. I know, support your local bookstore. My local bookstore closes at 9:00, sadly. I didn't buy anything because I'm busy reading Bowling Alone (for the teaching), Lucky Man, and American Tabloid. But Heather bought Derek Walcott's The Prodigal: A Poem (that's right--one poem 105 pages long) and Toby Barlow's Sharp Teeth (a werewolf mystery novel...written in blank verse). Poets are funny.

I did spend some quality time reading Oxford American. Unfortunately, I didn't see anything by two of my favorite writers, regular contributors Wendy Brenner (my professor from grad school) and Jack Pendarvis. But I read some of David Payne's essay on how the publishing industry hates Southerners Maud Newton's blog tipped me off to. Reminded me of Pinckney Benedict's succinct summing up of this point. Must we fight the Civil War in letters? Though I know a writer who attended a New York writers' residency and got the cold shoulder after they found out he lived in Atlanta (for my money as hellish an urbane place as you can get). But on the other hand, we are cornpone idjets down 'ere.