One of those ruts in which things I say don't make sense to myself or others, words trip out wrong, travel in the opposite direction. I say three things when I should have said two, two when I should have said none.

The tidy, innocuous example: the waitress says and I reply -

- How are you doing today?
- Oh, great thanks, you too.
The seven ( Read more... )

Stepping unexpectedly this morning in warm catpuke in bare feet I found this fragment of poesy issuing forth from my otherwise gentlemanly throat:

Jesus sufferin'
good God crappity
crap crap
on a goddamn
fuck-stick

None of which adequately addressed the situation, but it had to do.

Two months and a day into writing my novel and I have seven ( Read more... )

Poll oblongopoll

I've been painstakingly vague about myself in this journal, which is stupid. Let's lay it all out. Let's get naked ( Read more... )

I went for a walk tonight at sunset and six thousand things occurred to me. Let's go through them, one by one, until all four of you have removed me from your Friends list. Except, probably, for shemshade who I hear finally succumbed to an overdose of "Soft Scrub ( Read more... )

I think I'd like to be three ( Read more... )

So the play was read at a theatre in London. People said nice things and had some nice comments and nice criticisms. There were no conversations with Ralph on the big white phone. It was fine ( Read more... )

Those Brits are flying me out to London after all. My job is to Be The Playwright and not throw up ( Read more... )

Two years ago I got a call at work from a now-deceased friend asking if I wanted to write a commissioned play about the last days of Marilyn Monroe ( Read more... )

In a Jetsons-style kitchen with George W. Bush and Jeb Bush, I pick up on some tension between the two brothers ( Read more... )