So far neither the odd little multiple-choice test that had something to do with religion, Armageddon, and medication nor the brief tale about nearly blowing up a vending machine has managed to entice the good folks at McSweeney's. It's like they're daring me. Watch out! I could just crack and obsess and send out a new Thing every time I get another one of those pleasant and brief rejection notes from Chris Monks. I'll keep at it until I'm in or told to fuck off (or maybe both: "Fine! We'll put this up. Now go away and leave us alone, always.")
I had something else to say, I really did, but you know the synapses have been stuffed with Pop Rocks and cumin for a couple of weeks now, and while that's entertaining to watch and tasty in a Hannibal Lecter Goes To A Rave kind of way, it isn't especially conducive1 to the putting down of words one after another so that they'll makes sense to your average bloggish passerby.
What was it?
I think it might have something to do with the obscure Chinese poet I invented and his translator, who was recently killed in a blimp accident on Santa Barbara's East Beach...which might just be what's on my mind, rather than what I was thinking about telling you. But now I've gone and mentioned it, haven't I, so here it is as a subject all cartoon wide-eyed: please tell the people about me, I am ever so interesting as a topic, and I do try so hard. Very well, but don't blame me if they stop reading and kick you in the head on their way to Fark.
Now it's all built up. All I was going to say is that I acquired a monograph on The Late Tang period (Chinese Poetry of the Mid-Ninth Century, doncha know) under the mistaken impression that a monograph was something that shouldn't be more than, say, 120 pages or so. But apparently there's no such restriction, as this tome is 570 pages. The only reason I got it was to do a bit of research and lend a certain flavor of realism to a send-up of an academic paper that's probably going to be 1,500 words at most, and now I have to read the whole thing, yes I do.
I can't decide if that's overkill or not.
1Movable Type's spell checker wants me to know that "bloggish" is misspelled, but did not catch "condusive," thus forcing me to look it up myself. I am irritated and wish to speak to the manager.
I had something else to say, I really did, but you know the synapses have been stuffed with Pop Rocks and cumin for a couple of weeks now, and while that's entertaining to watch and tasty in a Hannibal Lecter Goes To A Rave kind of way, it isn't especially conducive1 to the putting down of words one after another so that they'll makes sense to your average bloggish passerby.
What was it?
I think it might have something to do with the obscure Chinese poet I invented and his translator, who was recently killed in a blimp accident on Santa Barbara's East Beach...which might just be what's on my mind, rather than what I was thinking about telling you. But now I've gone and mentioned it, haven't I, so here it is as a subject all cartoon wide-eyed: please tell the people about me, I am ever so interesting as a topic, and I do try so hard. Very well, but don't blame me if they stop reading and kick you in the head on their way to Fark.
Now it's all built up. All I was going to say is that I acquired a monograph on The Late Tang period (Chinese Poetry of the Mid-Ninth Century, doncha know) under the mistaken impression that a monograph was something that shouldn't be more than, say, 120 pages or so. But apparently there's no such restriction, as this tome is 570 pages. The only reason I got it was to do a bit of research and lend a certain flavor of realism to a send-up of an academic paper that's probably going to be 1,500 words at most, and now I have to read the whole thing, yes I do.
I can't decide if that's overkill or not.
1Movable Type's spell checker wants me to know that "bloggish" is misspelled, but did not catch "condusive," thus forcing me to look it up myself. I am irritated and wish to speak to the manager.
so you, too, love to eat them mousies? I thought, after all these years, I was alone...
God made Monroe Simmons wear a lime popsicle around his neck for most of his adult life.