Oh, and the reading?

Was weird. And there was no beer. But people seemed to like what I read. Thanks for all the support. <3

What am I, the answer man? Just vote for me!

Hi Internet! Who else was unable to tear themselves away from the television last night, despite being unbelievably exhausted, because they didn't want to miss a single sighing breathy giggling inflammatory whiny McCainy crazy promise moment? There were some classics! Mavericky maverick John McCain is frankly not buying this "women's health" baloney, for instance. He accused Barack Obama of class warfare and wanting to "spread the wealth around"! Right after proposing that the emphatically NOT SOCIALIST United States government buy up 300 billion dollars worth of toxic mortgages, because sometimes the free market just needs the state to own everything in order for capitalism to work! Also, John McCain was deeply hurt by Congressman John Lewis' comments that the creepy racists at McCain rallies are creepy racists but he also insisted on his right to call Obama a terrorist supporter of voter fraud. That is just how these debates work.

It was actually honestly kind of amazing how much Barack knocked it out of the park. Throughout the entire thing he was calm, thoughtful, engaged, and polite, while John McCain just sort of had a stroke for ninety minutes. Maybe the race is all wrapped up already? Or maybe McCain watches the Simpsons as much as I do: character assassination, crazy promises, and having a stroke onstage totally worked for Homer Simpson when he ran for trash commissioner, even though he was running against Steve Martin! I know there's only two weeks or so until the election, but do you think it's too much to hope for that Sarah Palin will sing a song based on "The Candy Man Can" for the American people before this is all over? It's not like she's inexperienced or anything.

72 minutes of poetry tonight at SLC.

Yeah. So. I'm part of the 6x6 Poetry Reading at Sarah Lawrence College tonight. I AM SORT OF WORKED UP ABOUT IT. For anyone who lives near or within Metro-Northing distance of Bronxville, it should be a cool event - 6 grad and 6 undergrad students each reading for 6 minutes. 8 p.m. in Slonim Living Room. There is usually free booze, but no promises.

Christopher Buckley + Obama = <3<3<3

Because all the literary news I feel like posting seems to be political today. Sorry dudes, only a few more weeks of this and then it'll be back to the usual posts about kittens or critical theory or whatever - at least until I finish this article I'm writing (Toward A New Theory of Kittens). That is, unless the Republicans take the election, in which case there will be no more blog because I will be imprisoned for assassinating them myself. Ha ha ha! Am I kidding? Anyway, via Wonkette:

Not that it matters, because the modern Republican fat-ass troglodyte with a sixth-grade education and a dollar-forty in the bank is not exactly spending a lot of time reading books, but talented conservative author and essayist Christopher Buckley is now officially in the tank. He is voting for Barack Obama. (Yes, Christopher B. is the son of William F. Buckley, the founder of both the National Review and mid-20th Century conservative intellectualism, which is 100% dead forever now.)

American poets witty, apt.

Charles Bernstein declares poetry bailout! There are just so many lolz herein:

As we know, lax composition practices since the advent of modernism led to irresponsible poets and irresponsible readers. Simply put, too many poets composed works they could not justify. We are seeing the impact on poetry, with a massive loss of confidence on the part of readers. What began as a subprime poetry problem on essentially unregulated poetry websites has spread to other, more stable, literary magazines and presses and contributed to excess poetry inventories that have pushed down the value of responsible poems.

Then he sat back down and tried to stop imagining a future where most Americans use Best American Poetry 2008 for kindling.


And, ha, you should probably donate some dollars or hours or syllables to the American Center For Sarah Palin Inspirational Limericks. This is a nascent genre that (please God) only has a month or so to live, and when the campaign is over you might not have your buttons or t-shirts or lipstick anymore, but you will always have the rhymes:

If Biden's emotions cause you to panic,
just re-apply your tactical lipstick.
Remember the mantra
your handlers taught'cha:
maverick, maverick, maverick.

Wizened Space Lizard Perplexed By Earthling Young

Alternatively, here is a blog devoted to photographs of babies in the arms of the Republican's human opponent. We all needed this after the unbelievably infuriating week of news we just OH WAIT IT'S ONLY WEDNESDAY.

We can line up to buy it with paper bags on our heads.

Okay Pyn-tards, it's official: there is a new Thomas Pynchon book. It is, quote, a "noir detective story set in the 1960's.""With lots of psychedelia in the background." "Around 400 pages." This is huge because, as everyone who follows his career knows, Pynchon prefers not to begin a book until six hundred generations of PhDs have written their doctoral theses on his previous one. Speculation can only intensify as the novel nears readiness for publication, but it's nice to know that a) you might have a chance of finishing this one before your children reach adulthood, put you in a home and can no longer afford to buy your reading glasses and b) Thomas Pynchon is writing about intrigue and paranoia for a change.

Speaking of intrigue and paranoia, as I mentioned in a previous entry, I did make the colossal blunder of going to see "Blindness" by myself this past weekend and the only bright spot of those three hours was a trailer for the film adaptation of "Doubt" - a brilliant, critically acclaimed play that I declined to see at the Sarasota Asolo Theater this spring because I liked it too much. Philip Seymour Hoffman and Amy Adams (!) star alongside what looks like a truly harrowing Meryl Streep. Trailer for the least trite-looking film of award season yet after the jump.

Disco at the end of the world.

I am annoyed. I have been annoyed since the summer of 2007, when Gawker did my alma mater the gross injustice of excluding it from the running for Most Annoying Liberal Arts College In America. I am annoyed because Bennington made the list, and when I first read Bret Easton Ellis' The Rules of Attraction there were enough similarities to get me thoroughly creeped out. I became convinced that New College of Florida in the twenty-first century was channeling Bennington in the eighties. Right down to our twin, perpetual obsessions with retro- and apocalypse-themed revelry, which was fun while it lasted but also something I thought I'd left there.

So imagine my surprise last night when I found myself at an End-Of-The-World party sponsored by Absolut! On an evening when the market had just finished terrifying everyone with no end to the plunge in sight, scores of lovely glittery partiers lined up outside historic 583 Park to smoke, primp, and ask each other whether we'd all be living in caves three months from now. Thankfully we didn't have to have these conversations sober for very long; the non-red-carpet doors opened just after eight, letting the crowd flow in over the steps like chilled vodka over the memories of a stock portfolio.

And inside? Absolut had provided absolutely everything a person could need to properly celebrate the world catching fire. Tattooed girls in daisy dukes with pigtails and on roller skates? Check. Half-naked men entirely covered in silver body paint? Check. Peach bitter cocktails with edible flowers, champagne cocktails with strawberry puree? Check. Models in blue-and-chrome tutus (courtesy of Patricia Field, also in attendance) and a mezzanine from which to leer at them? Amanda Lepore? Check, check, check. It was a fabulous time. I drank a lot. And since Absolut does provide for a staple of human existence that can only get more popular as our financial crisis worsens, I'm eagerly looking forward to Absolut Disco 2009. I just hope my lack of memories can hold me over til then.

The town's sundial will be useless!

It's getting on toward winter, my first real one with snow and giant Christmas trees and Macy's rioting and if I'm very very very lucky, elves. I've been fascinated since high school, when I first read David What's-His-Name's obscure little essay on the real, grown-up adult people who voluntarily wear furry hats and jingly shoes and work at Santaland because they need to buy groceries or a place to live or whatever. You won't have heard of him. (Will we see an upsurge in former Wall Street employees this year, looking for a change of pace, a place to get out of the cold, or just the chance to ask Santa for their careers back? Regardless, I'm sure they have a lot to say. The coming months will likely find me wandering about the department store, a Muji notebook in my hand, doing my best to guess which elf will win NPR's random annual drawing to become an international celebrity essayist.)

But before we can have elves and blinky lights we have to have fall! That is, from what I've gathered, how seasons work. And fall is, again from what I've gathered, a time of year marked by the complete disintegration of systems and objects that were whole and functioning not a month and a half prior. Since the equinox two or so weeks ago, here are some things that Saturnus has felled with his sickle and gathered unto himself for his grim harvest feast:

1) my laptop
2) our foundationally sound economy
3) everyone's immune system
4) the entire fucking sun

So yesterday with the sun-blocker securely in place and harvest festival plans nixed due to plague I went alone to see "Blindness" (bad move) and then with some Californian MFA colleagues to Westville East (whose website is down, THANKS FALL), where we lamented what we missed about living near or below the equator and compared inabilities to choose appropriate footwear. This evolved into an idea for some type of weekly Sarah Lawrence dining club devoted to trying new cuisines and complaining about our stupid, stupid classmates. Next week is either a dinner party at someone's apartment or Ethiopian food and I think the plan is to talk about people who don't use punctuation in their fiction. I'll keep you posted.