Why does God conspire to gulp so greedily the Fanta of my days? I've spent the past week reading and evaluating contest books, an activity that every year, without fail, temporarily extinguishes my desire to ever again molest tender paper with a single scuzzy word. When I wasn't doing that, I was:
1. Watching the hell out of some Carnal Knowledge, which I saw at the library and immediately pounced on, because: A) Art Garfunkel is in it, and B) I am obsessed with movies from the sixties and seventies that invoke the concepts of "castrating females" and "ballbusters," two terms which have regretfully fallen out of circulation in our modern age. Why, I have no idea, for is it not still true that women break dicks with their minds? Anyway, this wasn't as good as that movie where Elliott Gould is forced to visit prostitutes because his wife makes him impotent with her frigid brainwaves--what was that one called?--but almost.
2. Poring frenzily over rat engravings, for reasons of my own.
3. Inventing a new holiday, soon to be announced here. Hint: Jesus is going to plotz.
4. Writing a parody of Charles Simic that begins, "The wind calls things up like a poisoned cat." Picture soon to follow, of course.