Blepharoplasty
Biked to Evanston to sit and work in a coffeeshop at Hinman and Main, kind of in love with the fact that the street I’m facing right now is, in fact, Main Street. I like Main Streets. I don’t think there’s a Main Street in Chicago, there might be, but if so the name’s probably misleading.
Just found out that one of the pieces I wrote (“wrote”?) with Robert Kloss is going to be in a journal with a poem by Sherman Alexie, who though he probably does not know this once convinced me to stop smoking.
Good job, Sherman Alexie.
Another one of those trading-faces-with-Robert pieces is up now at Abjective. Others are forthcoming at Metazen & Prick of the Spindle & Anti- (which is where the Sherman Alexie poem will be, too).
Went to EAR EATER this weekend, which is a reading that takes place in what used to be the apartment directly underneath mine in Pilsen (I’ve since moved), and, speaking of Metazen, saw Frank Hinton read. Though even after the reading I still can’t tell whether Frank Hinton is a real person or some kind of brilliant Turing-tested litbot or what.
Here is some dialogue from a story I am writing right now about the Hardy Boys:
“Say, Frank,” Joe started. “Did you notice anything, well, a little queer about the President? Anything like, seem a little off?”
“Can’t say that I did, Joe. I’ve never been a fan of the man’s fiscal policy, but there’s nothing new there…”
“Anything… out of place?”
“Don’t get what you’re after here, Joe.”
“Remember when Dad was on the Jimmy Gimais Show a couple months back, playing that Oriental Mystic? Remember how, after a quarter-hour or so, one of Dad’s epicanthic folds started coming a little loose?”
It’s raining now, and probably I will bike back in the rain.
