Backroad blogging

Scratched out a few words on the Jews' early times (actually it's just this song). Read all about how I compare Berman to F Scott without any supporting evidence. Here.


By the way, the Pavement version of this song is incredible.

Waking up groggy

My job isn't the worst provided I don't encounter the owner, who is. Wrote that last night and then this morning he came in and was quite civil. Day naps are bad when you can't seem to function like now.

Third of the way into Walker Percy's The Last Gentleman had me thinking that this was everything I ever dreamed of and more, but by the end of it, I wanted to throw it into the econolodge indoor pool where a yellow tinge in the water had been noted in my log book. The sauna is broken and has been since I started. What frustrated me most is that I have a bunch of unread Percy's, including the sequel to The Last Gentleman!

Rescued by a delightful novel called Preparations for the Ascent by Gilbert Rogin. Steve Connell at Verse Chorus tipped me off — he's been reissuing Gilbert's stuff over the last couple years. I was curious what kind of comic novels they were publishing there, but Rogin's from another dimension. The New Yorker published him in the 60s and his stylish humor and prose complements the Salingers and the De Vries. 

Moving between fiction and non. Watching basketball alone, sometimes with people. Drinking white russians for breakfast and then going to bed with Gilbert Rogin, stuff like that. Saw Prometheus and liked it a lot. Revisiting Robert Hughes' memoir and occasionally noting interesting vocabulary: lapidary and parsimonious,  for instance. His account of artist Ian Fairweather is something. More than others, his account made me eager to see what his paintings looked like and so I went and found one.

Chaser's gone to the hills for the summer. The reason I am not with her is I am unqualified and I would die in the Colorado Mountains. I write her a note explaining how I needed to drink a bottle of wine that I was intending to share with her. One of the last things we did before she left was see this exhibition in town by sherrie wolf. Those are her squash up above and this is Chaser from the rear pensively perusing the Wolf. 

Grievous Gringos and Comrade Hansolov's new Doppler Shift

Snagged a position at econolodge night desk, slowly been acclimatizing myself to that. So far it's been a waking frightmare, but I suppose that's the case when you have to learn new things in life such as consistency of continental breakfast waffle mix. Outside of work I've been trying to sleep and when I'm having trouble doing that I read, or write letters like Flaubert did.

Melbourne's Michael Hawkins visited and we had our picture taken next to a fine act, who did many renditions of good old country standards. We probably wouldn't have stayed if it hadn't been for my seeing the setlist next to the singer's foot pique my interest, how song 6 was called Grievous and sure enough they played a rousing Gram Parsons. 

It's funny how a stylish friend of mine from Melbourne (Paul Phillipson) took umbrage with the outfit I was wearing  that day. Only now do I realize that it was clearly inspired by Charles Portis' Gringos — a droll novel I was reading at the time about bounty hunters, hippies and UFO chasers in Mexico— an author Paul can't stand. Before I left Melbourne, I had sold him my copy of True grit, saying that it was well worth the six dollars. What a load of crap was soon to be Paul's take and now I realize his strain of existential urbanity doesn't gibe so well with the folksy parlances in Portishead (Portis's head).

Anywho, I remain a fan of both Portis and Paul's taste in books and here's a wonderful snippet from Gringos where a nutjob relates his UFO experience to our skeptical narrator.

“I am a payroll programmer from the state of Missouri and I wear nice shirts and nice suits when I'm at home. I live in a garage apartment which suits me, though I could afford something much, much nicer. It's comfortable enough and very private. I sleep upstairs, alone, needless to say, and my bedroom window faces southwest. At a little after 11 o' clock on the night of August third I was awakened by an expiring rush of air. Then there came a pulsing light and a low frequency hum, or a sort of throbbing...I am a professional man with a peptic ulcer and chronic scalp problems. Otherwise, I enjoy normal good health.”

There's far more to the anecdote, but not only am I too lazy to transcribe it, I'm in a rush to get to work. It's a heckuva book, I'd recommend it to most anyone, aside from you know, you-know-who.

Began Working the Doppler Shift, Steve Hanson's new mostly music writing project. Steve lives in Wales and is literally so cultured they should name a yogurt after him. We been sharing ideas, music (we pass a memory stick back and forth - more on this here) and a mutual appreciation of Meltzer dating back to our salad days at Plan B. He is track 4 on Neu's 75. He fights against cliche with erudition, style and grace. He'll keep you guessing. I am still trying to work out the artist who belts this juicy sax on this acid jazz mash-up he made.

Post-grad Post

Rather pleasant here aside from the champagne bottle that shattered on my handlebars and nearly sent a projectile into my crotch on my way to Jesi's pool party before she leaves for Kentucky. I was wearing my bathers at the time. Now I am wearing boxer shorts that have been in my possession since the Clinton administration. Heck, Pavement hadn't even disbanded by then. Full disclosure: the waistband has started to unravel.

I bought three expensive pens the other day: the total came to $5.79. It will be interesting if I return with the one I'm taking to Lake Havasu with Mitch (who I am expecting shortly). I haven't written anything for days. The thoughts that came into my head were of such shallow insignificance that it had me wondering if I had taken anything from this world since 1972 — exactly one week after Mia Schoen's inspirational birth — other than a presence that is hard-to-ignore due to my much-ballyhooed moxie.

So I reread the greatest novel of all time, The Bushwhacked Piano, in an attempt to generate some interesting prose. My inability to emulate his style is hardly testament to its genius. I suppose the thing that I take away from it more than any other is Mcguane's steadfast refusal to communicate anything in a conventional fashion. It reads fresh, alien even, every time.

Been applying for jobs around town, figuring that a good place to decompress after grad school would be behind a desk at a hotel foyer from 11pm-7am. Nathanael West did this in the 1930s and got at least two masterful novellas out of it. However, it's hard winning over the hoteliers considering I have no experience, but my winning personality may ultimately win them in the end. Besides, I've got a novella to finish.

Haircut 100 + Hangover = I Will Survive

If I was a girl I would probably wear my hair in pigtails all the time.

In the space of a week, I have been told by two separate people that I smell like Goodwill and that I smell like an old man who has consumed a lot of garlic capsules. Yesterday Chase said I smelt like ketchup. 

Trying to finish up, organize a party, read a book, apply for jobs. Getting 'er done barely.

Vamping it up with crimson eye shadow

Updates up the ying-yang still to come, just a bit busy on my thesis. Doubt I'll finish, but hopefully will have it out with it this summer, a grudge match brawl.

Went to a wedding in Joshua Tree last weekend with the darling Chaser, who had an identity crisis. The wedding was at a lodge in the desert with her fellow outdoor ed instructors because when she's not at NAU, Chaser teaches outdoor ed. And since indoor ed is all I know and even that I am hardly an expert at, I probably came off as the least interesting person, but I really tried to be agreeable and may have overdid it. I got called out frequently on having a freaky attitude and look ala Richard Simmons. 

Sat in the dirt reading DH Lawrence, while Chaser scaled rock faces too high to even compute.

  "They had been sent to Dresden at the age of fifteen, for music among other things. And they had had a good time there. They lived freely among the students, they argued with the men over philosophical, sociological and artistic matters, they were just as good as the men themselves: only better, since they were women. And they tramped off to the forests with men bearing guitars, twang-twang! They sang the Wandervogel songs, and they were Free! That was the great word. Out in the open world, out in the forests of the morning, with lusty and splendid-throated young fellows, free to do as they liked, and - above all - to say what they liked. It was the talk that mattered supremely: the impassioned interchange of talk. Love was only a minor accompaniment." - Lady Chatterley's Lover


 As we left town, Chaser took me into a rock cave that had me thinking of The Cask of Amontillodo the whole time. Apparently people get stuck between the rocks in the pitch dark all the time. However she was a gentle loving guide, a skilled botanist, she has great legs and only mentioned flash flooding once.

On losing the ability to talk to squirrels

Dry Idea is a good name for lots of things, especially deodorant. Found some in the bargain bin at Bascha's, but I haven't applied it yet. Went to Safeway this morning in a beleaguered state having brewed the darling Chaser of Northern Michigan a rather dire plunger of coffee. Filled my basket with many items except the absolute necessity: toilet paper. Ate a jelly-filled donut as a reward for making it up the hill. It's suddenly cold today. It was warm yesterday to the degree that my tummy went pink as I sat outside finishing Geoff Dyer's charming Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi. Funny, but I mustn't drink so much. It's funny because I was thinking the other day that I wasn't doing enough of it, but then I was recovering from a cold at the time.

The Final Four was entertaining last night. Two years in a row I have watched it at Brews and Cues with JD Kitchens, an Alabaman who sings Lynyard Skynyard at karaoke. Kept asking the staff about their whisky specials and they were being evasive and for good reason. I simply didn't need to go there, but of course being stubborn I did go there and the subsequent night suffered as a result. Combination of that and a ghastly pub food diet. Tonight I am going to roast some mushrooms, contemplate what to do in the classroom tomorrow and read Thomas Bernhard's The Loser.

In other news, I have lost the ability to deploy my grey digger squirrel call. This is horrifying. My root canal came out the day after Matt and Alex arrived. We were headed to the Grand Canyon. Turns out the hole where my cap used to be was an integral prop in the mechanics of the impression.

I learned this on Friday afternoon in Chaser's backyard after she explained to me that she speaks like a sexy raven. I immediately went into squirrel call mode, but I could only make my lips tickle.

So I have started wearing aerosols and don't know if I will ever get to the Dry Idea, but it's in my toiletry basket on the bench and there if I need it. The Darling Chaser of Northern Michigan I'm pretty sure makes better eggs than Bonnie Raitt. She also uses a tea tree deodorant. Tea Tree is probably my favorite smell in the world. Here's a photo from Friday's sunset picnic at Buffalo Park. A bit Andrew Wyeth-esque.

Deep in the heart of Texas

Back from damn cool Austin. As the photo above illustrates, I was a sweaty Betty. Glory be, as Bel would say. Had a fizzy time, there really is no other word for it. Actually there is/are. Perhaps this weekend I will transcribe the notes I took down. I'd say they are hilarious, but also painfully esoteric outside the circle of Alex, Matt and I. Nevertheless, the results will be available and your level of care will be determined by whether you read them or not. Never an obligation!

We drove from Flagstaff to Austin in two days. Stayed in Albuquerque one night and a lugubrious ghost town called Early, Texas in which we barely survived an axe murdering the night after. We were in Austin five days. Saw some shows that rank high in the echelon of my ears and mind. Must say it was rather grim to go from humid Austin to a disastrous blizzard in Flagstaff, but here I am in one piece with merely a cold.

Hairy t-shirts and cuban sandwiches

I need an eyepatch. Not because I feel mysterious today, but because I gave myself a black eye when I crashed my bike. Did a quality photoshoot in my Hairy t-shirt that Mia kindly sent. Mia it fits real well as well. Subsequently listened to my Cannanes mix on the way to the wine bar that Leah works at. The wine there is so good. Hallucinogenic even. I crashed on my bike later, hairy t-shirt escaped the crash unscathed. My face skidded on the pavement. I had my helmet on. My eye is puffy. I kind of know what Jim Harrison feels like now. The darling Chaser of Northern Michigan would know too. She has sat on his lap. Jim has one eye.


The darling Chaser of Northern Michigan and Roberto and I met for breakfast. Martennes, royal Southwestern style grub is religiously popular and therefore too busy at this minute, so we opted for Criollo, this excellent Latin place next door. Chaser wanted to replace her peacock earrings that she lost the night before, so we did that and bought matching wayfarers.

In high school Chaser was one of the fastest girls in the country, and as she tells it, she maintained her prowess until she got curvaceous. Robert and I ate cuban sandwiches. I have my hairy t-shirt on underneath my overcoat. Those sandwiches are rich and juicy. I think they are a good primer for when Matt and Alex arrive and we hit the road for some Texas BBQ. Chaser had a mushroom burrito. I ordered a bloody mary sans vodka and when the invoice came through, they tried to charge me for virgin blood!

Matt and Alex get here Friday. What will they want to eat, I wonder? This is at front of mind. I know the theme of their welcoming party is honey, but I will probably get some tequila. I have other work to do now, but I may just read some more of Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi. Nice to be reading again for my own personal pleasure.

For David Nichols

A Bonanza of High Adrenaline

"My scotch-soaked gearbox tickles me half to death as I shift down to recall the ironic pleasure this photograph, taken backstage at a Don Ho show in 1977, has given me over the years." (first line of the essay I presented on Friday) 

Chuffed to present at our university conference, only wish the Malkmus show wasn't on the same night. This was almost too much of an adrenaline high. Malkmus and co. were drop-dead good. He continues to mine an aesthetic that astounds me. There's no doubt my prose attempts to fuse high style with a nonchalance similarly (in other words: blame him!) Hazardous territory to be sure and one that I struggle to successfully integrate, but it's so much dang fun trying. Corwin gave me a plastic man t-shirt, so I am wearing that. The darling Chaser of Northern Michigan agreed to meet me for dinner tonight. She once sat on Jim Harrison's lap, which is good enough reason to skip the Oscars if there ever was one. Plus everyone is so down on Clooney in the Descendants (Bel, FJG, Bret Easton Ellis), I just can't stand the disagreements any longer. Now if only the local pizzeria were still open. I am told it is closing, which is the darndest crying shame. Still we will try our luck. The food is so fine (the #15 braised pork is incomparable), the ambience is lovely, especially for a Sunday evening, and they have an exquisite hi-fi that routinely plays jazz-rock that is music to my ringing ears.

Cheyenne Madonna

Finally acquired a bag that represents my professional authority and class. Recently obsessed over a long review of a heroic story collection from a Cherokee indian who will be in Flagstaff soon for the book festival. Eddie's the real deal. Martin Amis said if you don't wet your pants in front of the guys you revere, you're pathetic, but I think I can suppress it just fine. Immediate plans involve quaffing this here mug of pineapple tea (a gift from Mom's Hawaiian cousins that she re-gifted to me) and going to bed (Tar Heel game and a shower preceding).

Phoenix, AZ

Great taste of Phoenix on the weekend, which was wholly unexpected. Doris and I stayed at a slum hotel where the towels smelt like they dry between guests and little else. It was near the arena, within walking distance.

The summer weather in Phoenix during winter was flabbergasting. People walking around with their shirts off. Hard to complain about that.

Went for a three hour hike in which I never worked up an appetite because I had eaten a protein brownie that I had bought at a Circle K for $2.39. Lack of hunger frightened me a bit. However once we stepped in Trader Joe's afterwards I was ravenous, ended up buying some applesauce among other things to take back to Flagstaff as there are no Trader Joe's here. Downtown Phoenix is worth checking out.

We were stationed in the art district. Fortuitously came across the club where I'll see Malkmus next month. Pretty jazzed about that. Will see if Roberto and J want to rent a room in a hotel on Van Buren Blvd and I will show them how.

A lot of our excursion reminded me of the finer points of LA. The hike had a slight Mulholland Drive tinge to it (minus the amnesiatic lesbian), while the neighborhoods around downtown were lined with palm tress and beautiful bungalows.

Before the Suns game, we grabbed a bite at Cooperstown, the insanely popular sports bar that Alice assembled. Lots of good memorabilia including a life-size dummy of him. I couldn't resist a beef brisket sandwich. Margaritas were damn good too. Actually they were called the best damn margarita and they ain't lying. The arena was next door. The Suns won. Impressive because they are not very good. Had a beer at an Irish Bar afterwards and called it a night to remember.

Year in Reading

I read some books last year. Some were too cumbersome to fit in my pocket. Others I would marry if they were girls.

Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem (12)
Boomerang by Barry Hannah (14)
Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence (5)
Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan (11)
Reinhart's Women by Thomas Berger (4)
Swimming to Cambodia by Spalding Gray (6)
Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole (10)
Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by JK Rowling (25)
The Great Gatsby by F Scott (13)
I no longer believe in the sun: Letters to Katie Couric by Derek Fenner (21)
The Rainbow by DH Lawrence (24)
This is Orson Welles by Peter Bogdonavich (9)
2001 Australian Nights by Dave Graney (19)
Don Quixote by Miguel Cervantes (15)
The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West (17)
Crazy in Berlin by Thomas Berger (18)
Pages from a Cold Island by Fred Exley (8)
Love in the Ruins by Walker Percy (1)
Bats Out of Hell by Barry Hannah (3)
Neighbors by Thomas Berger (16)
Never Die by Barry Hannah (22)
Black Boy by Richard Wright (7)
George Sanders: An Exhausted Life by Peter Van derBeets (20)
Norwood by Charles Portis (2)
A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O' Connor (23)

Chronic City by Jonathan Lethem NYC novel written with so much dash and flair you excuse the exceedingly nerdy premise. Instant classic!


Boomerang by Barry Hannah
Jazzy lit virtuoso with a spiked-stud punk credo.


Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence Lawrence's ode to coal and the men who mine it. Essential read for sons of mothers, their mothers, and to a lesser extent their lovers. Became a communist manifesto embraced by wordsmiths such as Richard Wright.


Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan
Instructive surrealism/illogical beauty. Child-like! Life-changing!


Reinhart's Women by Thomas Berger
The last Reinhart novel has more heart, more sweetness to its core than it does women and food, and there's a lot of women and food in this definitive Eighties novel from the great heir to Twain.

Swimming to Cambodia by Spalding Gray
Gray documents his misadventures in Thailand and Cambodia filming The Killing Fields. A superb blend of darkness (recounting the horrors perpetrated by the Khmer Rouge) and light (Gray is a charming neurotic narrator).

Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole
A supreme example of stretching high comedy over 500 farcical pages, really quite awesome.

Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone by JK Rowling
The first fifty pages were pretty good angst.


The Great Gatsby by F Scott
Weirder than I remembered, eternally mysterious and beautiful.


I no longer believe in the sun: Letters to Katie Couric by Derek Fenner
An obsession with Katie Couric yields impressive high comedy.


The Rainbow by DH Lawrence
Went off Lawrence a bit after this. A slog. Felt like Twain on an island with nothing but Henry James.


This is Orson Welles by Peter Bogdonavich
If someone said that I had an opportunity to go live on an island where it would just be me and Orson, I would seriously leave today. After a certain length of time, I would come to want his movies there too and there would be no food left.

2001 Australian Nights by Dave Graney 
I like how it closes with a meditation on death. Beautiful. Actually death walks among the pages of this memoir from one of Australia's unique personalities/ musical treasures like the Atomic Rooster song David Nichols put on a mix-CD he gave me for my 35th birthday. Really feel Dave's presence as a noble artist with such an insatiable thirst for the culture around him and his seeking answers to life through his art.

Don Quixote by Miguel Cervantes 
Its ample ruminations on love came at a less than ideal moment. Certainly one to read when you are in love!

The Day of the Locust by Nathanael West 
Is there a nastier low-rent femme fatale in American fiction than Faye Greener? The cockfighting, the midgets. Opens the door that Flannery rather assuredly walked through.

Crazy in Berlin by Thomas Berger 
Evil, and a testament to Berger's genius. His debut written in his twenties, Wellesian.

Pages from a Cold Island by Fred Exley 
The sex is off-the-charts and so is the Mailer-esque writing, grandiose and full of walloping torment. He writes Portis off for his “folksy parlance”. Brilliant and hilarious.

Love in the Ruins by Walker Percy 
Page after page of this book was just unbelievable. Some of my most favorite times of the year were spent reading this.

Bats Out of Hell by Barry Hannah 
Contains a good deal of Hannah's most brilliant writing.

Neighbors by Thomas Berger 
H texted me the other day: “Read Neighbors in three days. My favorite book of 2011 or 2012. Perfect economical dialogue. Not a wasted word. Berger has a fantastic quote regarding Neighbors and how it will be misunderstood. I'll forward it on.” He never forwarded it on.

Never Die by Barry Hannah
I'd like to give this bat-shit crazy western to a Zane Grey lover. Curious if Cormac M ever read him. 

Black Boy by Richard Wright
The prose is so clean you could eat off it.

George Sanders: An Exhausted Life by Peter Van derBeets It's entirely too bad we never got his life in words because his eloquence and wit offscreen was as finely wrought as the words Mankiewicz and other wrote for him. Him and Zsa Zsa, the great modern pair.

Norwood by Charles Portis
Slight, but a good model for what I am trying to do. I love it.

A Good Man is Hard to Find by Flannery O' Connor
Not so much heartless, as not real empathetic. I'm reading Spalding Gray's Journals and his girlfriend criticizes his efforts at fiction saying he does not have enough empathy for people. Personally I don't know if I do either! Story collection ends with an old curmudgeon, who gets a change of heart, but it's too late. My recommendation: play Smog's Wild Love while reading Stroke of Good Fortune. It's a party in heaven attended by creeps you won't want to miss!

Parts of Alex Chilton's sock

Texted H yesterday saying thank goodness Hissing Fauna, Are you my Destroyer? is such a stunning album because the packaging is impenetrable. For whatever reason, I compared it to a bowel movement made by an author who did his best work in the 80s.

I'm just glad that I am not the first person to google 'parts of a sock.' True story. Didn't know the top part of a sock was called a cuff,  so I blimming googled it.

 Barry came by last night and we christened the Smile Sesh on the chunky acetate I received for Christmas. It was smashing, a word I apparently say all the time — I have no knowledge of this ever occurring, but I really love those weird and wonderful instrumental passages the Beach Boys put into action, they are smashing. Here's Barry and I from another time. We both like Alex Chilton a lot and always end up talking about him because what else you going to talk about? Let me rephrase that: why else talk about anything else?

Portland 1972-present

That's Dad bbqing a tri-tip, looking for a top up.

Saw Typhoon Babb in his Oregon Ducks uniform (#69) drinking a 7 & 7 at Bleachers Pub and Grill. He was playing pool with fellow Spartan alum Pat K on New Years's Day. What an exciting thrill! Bleachers is a beerhole that serves top shelf brandy liqueur on demand if the Blazers get to within ten points of their opponents with six minutes to play in the fourth quarter. The brandy was my idea. I am not no coach so every little bit counts. We had nachos and wings and it was delightfully sloppy. But the Blazers lost.

 I texted Tim the next day and waited to hear from him and waited some more. After wondering why he hadn't texted me back, I actually became quite cross, then I remembered! I had thrown his phone in the river on NYE. We went and saw the Pierced Arrows that night, Fred and Toody's post-Dead Moon project. I had succumbed to the Canadian Hunter a little too savagely by this point. I prowled the merch desk, enamored with the buttons they had on display for a $1, but I couldn't buy anything because I had left my wallet at Tim's house. Left a lot of things behind the last few days. Left my credit card at Bleachers. Went and watched the football game at John and Tami's yesterday. Left my phone there.

Tim gave me his leather jacket because he's been looking for someone to give it to and I happened to have the right build, so he insisted! It's a really nice jacket! What a guy! The thing is the pockets in new jackets throw me off and I always think I know where things are, but in actuality I don't. Therefore I am constantly leaving stuff behind. In likelihood this pattern will continue for the next few weeks. My New Years resolution will involve getting a driver's license, I think.

Ultra-score

and a Gringos rave-up by Wells Tower

The kids are alrite

Can't get over how fully-formed Stewart Anderson was musically at the onset of puberty. Been loving The Wetherbeat Scene 1988-1991, a compilation of David Gedge swoons capturing a joie de vivrie missing from 99% of history's pop/rock hits. These kids just get it. Alternating between this and the new Twerps is kind of like rediscovering a favorite shirt. Everyone should get themselves two copies one for them and one for their nieces, even though I'm not. I just sent my neices two Of Montreal CDs (one of which is my favorite album of the last ten years). By next year, they'll be ready for the wetherby players no doubt.

Made my first BLT and other profundities

Brought a bottle of cheap red over to Jen and Stew for their Christmas Party on Sunday. Then I listened to their band Cheap Red while practicing yoga later that night. I felt really bad for bringing the cheap red over to their place. I felt even worse for having enjoyed it! I felt better when I made the connection with Cheap Red. This is really a fine album that resulted in a good yoga stretch. Made the transition to vinyl, haven't bought a CD in months. Alex sent me the new Twerps, I been loving that. Stewart brought a paper sack to the jingle bell partay full of funky yieldings from his outstanding label. Here's a weird photo of our house at night. I walked through the snow to the shops for ingredients to make my first BLT ever yesterday. School's out, I got myself hungover and I'm home now working on an essay that I think will be good. Outside, the snow melts.

Jingle Bell Partay

I liked the party that was thrown here last night by me (this rather incongruous photo was taken a few nights later after we were dumped with snow and the moon to the north).

My housemate Doris who is European and thus cultured in ways that are far-more-interesting than run-of-the-mill Americans, made swedish glugg, mulled wine to a certain extent. Anyways it was ripping and patrons were thankful for the killer partying that resulted partially from that. We also played killer tunes that were consistently brilliant. The party was commemorated by a new pair of shoes worn by me. Aside from partying and wearing funky new shoes, I am learning that it is important to write about something that means something, so I am working on writing something that means something, infusing ordinary scenes with my usual flair (by flair I mean voice and strong sentences, two things I care about the most). Fiction is an art-form that needs to be taught, or learned, I reckon and since I didn't learn it, I am being taught it. The brilliant stuff is magic and there are ways to render this magic and that is what I'm being taught. I am off to Coco's now - a local diner. I hope it is not too loud. I have been craving an omelet since gawd knows when.