Birthday Update!

The princess just ate this. The result is a vom-emotion.

Notice My Slick Trick Ending

Yesterday I felt a strong urge to play Runaway Sandwich Island, one of my favorite childhood games. SCENARIO: Parental mistreatment has forced you to run away to an island with nothing but a bag of sandwiches! Eat them as slowly as you can! Is the name counterintuitive? No doubt many of you thought first of an island entirely populated with teenage drug-addicted prostitute sandwiches, all wet with jelly in their middles. Anyway, I ran to Barnes and Noble to pick up a copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, and was moved to wonder just what the hell is going on with the covers of Barnes and Noble Classics. I happen to own three of these: Middlemarch, Robinson Crusoe, and now poor Tom; and the covers are just the saddest smears of mustard-crap I've seen in my entire little life--a life which gets big tomorrow, when I turn into a twenty-six year old!

I'll Give You a Sandwich, Dan--a BLOOD Sandwich!

I finally got around to reading The New Yorker's recent review of Frank O'Hara: Selected Poems. Oh don't you feel ridiculous, Dan Chiasson:

"O’Hara is known for a certain kind of elegy that arrives at its subject late, after tarrying in the meaningless, adjacent quotidian. And yet, read backward from the deaths at the end of 'A Step Away from Them' ('First Bunny died, then John Latouche, / then Jackson Pollock'), even the initial stray details of a New York street are impressed into elegiac service:

It’s my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on.

'Glistening torsos sandwiches': here devouring time makes sandwiches of the torsos, themselves sandwiched between the outer term of evanescence (sweat as it glistens) and the inner term (a sandwich as it gets eaten)."

His Nearness Is a Poison Plant

I have a single hive of hatred on my little neck--my guess is because I've had a snootful of the Pope all week long. He is bad dander from the worst animal, that man.

Question for the Makers

Why wasn't I born knowing how to draw a chair? Am I the only one? Were all the other babies lying around quietly rotating cubes in their minds, while I in my infirmity screamed and stared and saw only the Tit?

Also a Fake Scientist from the UK

On the phone just now, my mother used the word incontrafutably. "A WONDERFUL WORD BUT IT FAILS TO EXIST," I shrieked uncontrollably. "Or doesn't it?" she retorted. Jan, the lady in the Netherlands, agrees!