Epistle to Van Dyke Parks

Lacerated on the fjords, I saw your word jumble set to brain-print by an unfortunate tumble and comical run-in with a horn'd goat. All Good Things Come Again.

Also, I have another piece up at Printculture.

Stay tuned for more inscrutable prose concerning Philip Glass, Kronos Quartet and Dracula and also the Pitchfork Music Festival.

Not a Seymour - Stop Insinuating

It's come to my attention that, if you're viewing the RSS feed of this blog, every post for the last few months has ended with the sentence, "You've been fed, Audrey." I don't know why that happens, but it's not me. I've ended every post with, "When I hear the word 'culture,' I reach for my brownies. Because they're delicious." Now that's what I call unimpeachable.

Syllepsis, the New New Anti-Drug

While the komodo dragon's tail can strike with enough force to break a man's legs, only its cold indifference can break my heart.

It's Slower Than You Think, and It Is Right Behind You

We were in the car, and I looked around at the pack of rats flitting in between the tires, squeaking, keeping pace with the vehicle. These new high-velocity rodents are both a wonder and a travesty, I thought, fondling my sandwich. There is hope for the future, when the rats catch up and slither in through the vents.

Conjunction Junction, You've Outlived Your Own Usefulness!

There's only one thing worse than a writer who doesn't write, and that's a writer who erases stuff he's already written.