Facebook is especially disturbing once you manage to figure out what kind of people your distant cousins really are.
Well, Broken Seal, an itty bitty piece I sold, is now available in the newest issue of Necrotic Tissue.
It may not be the New Yorker, but the cheque cleared and publisher R. Scott McCoy was a patient correspondent. I believe registration is necessary to receive the newest issue, but they’re moving to a subscription only format soon, so you should get the freeness while it lasts.
Crunch ‘n Munch [Crunch grown on plantations under the blue skies of the south pacific, Munch being harvested above the 67’N latitude, found amongst the thaw of the spring tundra] is really the only food that can turn nuts into the most rewarding part of the eating experience. Despite my falling away from cracker jacks, somehow Crunch ‘n Munch maintains a firm place in my stomach [with all the nuts clumped at the bottom].
Still, otherwise nuts are just wood – even their stealthy legume cousins, which are really just clever imitations of wood, and will otherwise never rise above the middle of the pack in any given combination of ingredients. Even almond M&Ms, the Cadillac of M&Ms, are still largely delivery mechanisms for chocolate and candy.
The news media, long being a tug of war between information and idiocy, often displays its worst tendencies on the CNN front page:
Huh. I’ve also heard that there’s no good way to turn putting down your dog into edutainment, nor any good way to sit in a tiny overly white room as your family huddles around the last rattling gasp of a dying grandfather. I wonder how many child soldiers, after a long afternoon of removing the hands from an entire village’s worth of corpses, think: “Jeez, really, shouldn’t there be a good way of doing this. Where’s the job satisfaction? Where’s the laughter? Maybe we should institute casual Fridays.”
One of my favourite bits of work by Jack Nitzsche, who worked with Neil Young and, as you can definitely hear by the end of the song, Phil Spector.
Personally though, I sort of prefered it as the theme to tiny Ron Howard and giant dancing Beau Bridges.
I’ve been remembering my dreams quite a bit lately, so I thought I might start imparting them here.
Last night I dreamt that we – meaning my compound family – lived in South Dakota – it being the kind of dream that is for some reason very specific about location – surrounded by houses that we felt a paranoid mania about watching. We’d scurry in the dark across massive and empty hard wood floors, from bay window to bay window, hiding behind huge white vinyl hanging slats. All to observe, from a distance, the kinds of houses you might find on the edge of a small town golf course.
The bulk of the dream focused on something threatening that I can’t quite recall, but there was an on going side plot involving us trying to puzzle out if Anderson Cooper lived in one of the houses. It was especially odd that what prevented us from really being sure was that he kept entering and exiting the house with Burt Reynolds (amongst others).
I’m not sure what this means, or what had us worried in the first place. Drug dealing werewolves spring to mind, but that might be a post-waking mad lib.