Either/Or Fear and Trembling: Vote Kierkegaard!

I know these have already got around--I found them on Maud Newton's blog. But I miss philosophy and how can you resist? You can't.


Here are others:

Nietzsche Attack Ad
Kant Attack Ad

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...

Do Not Wear a Top Hat to the Airport

My friend Melody Clayton has brought to my attention the case of Sebastian Horsley. The British author of the recently released and well-reviewed memoir Dandy in the Underworld, a work chronicling his debauchery. Crazy sells in memoir, but Horsley backs it up--the article Melody sent me ends with the line: "Horsley achieved his greatest notoriety in 2000 when he had himself crucified in the Philippines as part of an art project."

So Horsley arrives in Newark dressed in "top hat, long velvet coat, gloves" and is denied entrance to the U.S. because of "moral turpitude." Turpitude! Horsley said he was deported, but the U.S. authorities pointed out that he wasn't kicked out, he just wasn't let in. Take that semantics. Now a case could be made that he wasn't allowed in because of a past drug charge when he was in the U.S., but that was 25 years ago and he'd been to the U.S. a half dozen times since then. Reportedly, the agents told him, "We know you're a heroin addict, we know you're a crack addict, we know you're involved in prostitution." Apparently they knew because they'd read his memoir. But didn't know that he'd been clean for three years. They were also very interested in what he had in his stove top hat.

Melody points out that Horsley and the publishing company must be smiling over the publicity. And I was with Horsley when he said he was glad they'd read the book. Homeland security reads? So I thought about that and have to assume they must only read book jackets or reviews. Or better yet have some computer that flags works with inappropriate words.

Whatever the case, we can all agree that the U.S. is a safer place keeping authors like Sebastian Horsley out.

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.

COMING SOON!

Burgers and Porn

So tonight in reward for walking in the park and getting good news at work, I ate at Big Daddy's Burger Bar on my beloved East Blvd. Okay, so it's a horrible name. An awful name. But I am obsessed with this place. It has a simple plan, beautifully executed. I ate a burger--condiment-free, of course--and sweet potato fries. Ohhhh...sweet, sweet, sweet potato fries. They are so good--they're porn-like guilt-ridden (back to that damn silly name). I should stop.

Too Many Books

I have too many books. For example, here are some books that are cluttering my desk, and I wish desperately I could read but instead need to read others, and grade, and propose an honor class, and prep for the classes I'm teaching now, etc, etc:

Donald Barthelme's Forty Stories
Donald Barthelme's Sixty Stories
Martin Amis' London Fields
Toby Barlow's Sharp Teeth

And that's just the ones I can read the titles of through the clutter. That's a total of 100 Barthelme stories. I need to stop sleeping.