It has been more than one official year since I planted official words in this particular e-soil, and my only excuse is that there is no excuse, as Arnold Schwarzenegger would say if I were to put my words into his mouth. (You’d have to remove that filthy cigar first, Arnie. Make room for me. Hmm, that sounds like bad gay innuendo. I take it back, but leave it up, thus having it both ways . . . that is what double entendre means, right?)

Am I still using this ridiculous Textpattern software? Why, yes! I can never remember how to use it when I return after my long absences. Formatting through markup, Jesus Fucking Christ, what is this, 2002? Did someone do a typo in the year?

Hmm, what to report? I read Thomas Pynchon last summer. Turns out, mostly REread. I always thought of myself as having barely cracked the man’s oeuvre, but it turns out I’d already read all but one of his books. And it ALSO turns out his BEST one was, drum roll, the one I omitted. So, I’ll need to reread it—eventually—to achieve parity, as well as to verify that it really is the best one. (I’m talking about Mason & Dixon here, but you know that already, natch, right?) I would also like—eventually—to reread Against the Day (which, to complicate the narrative, is the one I didn’t actually read this summer, since I’d just read it a couple years ago and it didn’t seem necessary this time around, so sue me), and then I’ll have officially read all of Pynchon’s books twice, and top THAT at your next cocktail party, amirite? Except, I never attend cocktail parties . . . in fact, I’m pretty sure I’ve never been to one in my life. Probably never will. Unless this blog really explodes, of course. That makes you an A-Lister, right? When the blog gets rocket boosters? They call it the Big Time where I’m from. “How’s the view from up there?” (That’s what they sarcastically ask, standing right next to you, holding their martinis. And you answer with a placating grimace and sip your own martini and thank Goober that this is just some lame-o laboring class fantasy that’s probably going to conclude with a total whimper of a parenthesis. After all, tomorrow’s Monday.)

What else? Oh, I shall be appearing in another anthology sometime this year! Found that out today. Excellent news, but I swear I was planning this blog article anyway. The Pynchon thing is important enough to merit a bloggy shoutout, don’t you think? I will of course reveal the antho deets when those deets are knowable. Monitor this bat channel for dem ol’ deets, fam.

Ah, and according to the Eibonvale site, their release of my chapbook Furious in the Expanse should occur in “early 2020,” so monitor etcetera, and I will dole out the deets, ontology permitting. (I’m not really 100% comfortable with the definition of that word, but I feel like it’s okay to be on rocky ground when it comes to philosophy because no one else fucking knows what it fucking means either, so they’ll all get a good ol’ fucking chuckle out of it whether it’s witty or fucking not. Plus, when all else fails, “fucking” is just fucking FUNNY. Amirite?)

Not a command, but a benison.

This site is my publicity vehicle, obviously, albeit imperfectly driven. Ofttimes, I even forget to announce my announcements . . . etcetera . . . and “So what,” you ask? Precisely! But today we shall point toward other publicities just cuz.

I read Brendan Connell’s recent novel Unofficial History of Pi Wei. (Say that out loud, why don’tcha. The only way to get the joke.) Witty pastiche of Kung Fu movies and ancient Confucian / Taoist analects. (I’m no expert in either of these forms, admittedly, but the author clearly is.) As with all his work, Brendan is both irreverently creative and creatively reverent. He’s not the least bit reluctant to explore every limit of the formal constraints he’s imposed on himself. Which is the definition of art, perhaps. I should warn you this novel makes a strong case for sex with trees.

I read a wild, unexpected novel-in-stories by someone gorgeously named Ysabeau Wilce recently. Prophecies, Libels & Dreams: Stories of Califa. I had actually ordered a bunch of old mags from a local small press and they threw this book in for the hell of it, maybe as a thank you for spending so much, and it turned out to be the standout of the bunch, by far, for the ecstatic language and the colorful characters, including a charming and petulant youngster—really the best kind of literary character there is, don’t you agree?

Let’s see, I should mention the BEST BOOK I READ LAST YEAR. I don’t know yet, let me consult my listings. Okay. I’m going with Kleinzeit, by Russell Hoban. Let me tell you the story behind my reading this book. There I was at the Amherst Jones Library randomly perambulating the stacks, and my fingers arrested ’pon a particular title (being Kleinzeit, duh), and I deshimmed it from the shelf, opened it unto mine eyes, and what were the very first words I did behold? “Yarrow: fullest stock.” I shit you not. So I checked it out of that there library posthaste, of course. Promptly read it. A bold and brilliant book! Par excellence in language, form, ideas, general zaniness. Such random encounters are my stock in trade, literarily. What I’m saying is all my best literary experiences have sprung from the void. You have to allow it to happen. (And of course, it doesn’t happen online. There’s no such thing as a random encounter when algorithms are runnin’ the show. It’s all decided for you.)

Please take note of all the recent releases at Whiskey Tit. I can aver in particular that Joey Truman’s Postal Child sequel, Postal Child Parlay is an absolute delight to read, and the man’s talent continues to blossom with each new release. I didn’t see the merit of the first Postal Child when I first read it, but Truman’s subsequent releases Killing the Math and Kinderrinder corrected my impression (viz., impressed me), and Parlay is simply a sublime work of the imagination, and I’m honored to share the Tit List with this most writerly gentleman. He has a cookbook coming out now, too, which I am salivating to see!

Please also take note, I was recently notified by our old friend Robin Wyatt Dunn of his upcoming release, The Black King of Kalfour. February 1 will be the time to pounce on that volume at your favorite online emporium of ebooks or paperbacks, take your pick.

Hmm, I usually include links to things I mention, but I don’t feel like it at the moment. Manana. That doesn’t look right. Mañana? Mmm, that impertinent ñ, shaking its wiggle all over the place.

Forgot about this website thingy. But one would have—had one not forgotten—announced the forthcoming (2019) publication of one’s third book . . . a fiction collection entitled Furious in the Expanse. Not sure EXACTLY when, but probably later in the year, as you might deduce from its placement in this here list.

I love the visual sensorium of Eibonvale Press, and I used to daydream about placing work there . . . thus, when they started doing chapbooks I saw my chance! I pounced! The trap was sprung! I was in! I’m in! A thousand thank yous to David Rix, aka Mr. Eibonvale himself!

Hmm, any other news? I can’t think of any. My life is nothing but work work work, but I’m hoping to reënlist my creative faeries this year. I may have to pressgang those motherfuckers, actually, but we’ll try persuasion first, of course. First carrots, then sticks, or maybe carrots as sticks?

And so it shall be. I need say no more. But here’s a Facebook link straight from the oobleck via the samizdat.

Upon which date I shall be reading from I, No Other. (The 15th, you ignorant buffoon!)

To? A captivated audience (containing possibly You?) at the VCFA, which is short for The Verboten Covfefe of the Finer thangs in life Ain’t free . . . or something like that. Lemme consult the Googleplex: Aha! The Vermont College of Fine Arts, I was close!

(That’s in Montpelier, VT, if you were the least bit confused by that last paragraph. Don’t worry, the writer has been fired. Cruelly.)

We’re quickly reaching the limits of my knowledge . . . ooh! It’s at 6PM! From 6-9PM, in fact. So we have:

6-9PM at VCFA in Montpelier VT on March 15.

I will be reading from I, No Other, but there will be others. For example, the Joey Truman/Jack Warren show! They have the weirdest coolest Performance Art Lit Music Thing going these days, don’t wanna miss that! And there will be Meghan Lamb! She’s from Chicago, I think, imagine coming all the way to Vermont to read stuff to people! And THIS JUST IN, and I quote: “Your post misses the debut of Margaret Wedge, whose Knickpoint will be published next month. You’ll fall in love with her a little; we all do.” Did you hear that? There’s going to be someone at this reading that you’ll fall in love with!!! Jesus Christ, how can you not show up for THAT?

It’s pretty rare that I fraternize with actual writer people, so this is going to be both amazing and terrifying, as all the best things in life are. If you come, you should buy my books and I’ll sign them! Or bring them (if you already bought them), and I’ll sign them! If I already signed them in the past, I’m not unwilling to sign them again. We’ll talk.

Mark your calendars, lads & lassies! In fact, use this handy Facebook event link if you are one of those drones still buzzing around that honeypot of Russkie deplorables.

Ah! There’s an image, too. Let’s see, how do we do this? You know what? This calls for a new post!