In Honor of Bloomsday…

A bit from my recent article for the Baffler.

75. Ulysses, James Joyce

Strolling the streets of Zurich on a beautiful day, homburg hat set at a rakish angle, tapping along with his walking stick, Joyce is astonished as I walk up and, without warning, snap a right jab into his good eye. He leans forward in pain, and I cup my hands and slap both ears. Howling now, Joyce becomes a man possessed, swinging wildly with his cane. I bob and weave then deliver a quick snap-kick to his groin. He buckles, and I follow it with a backhanded tolchock to the chin and a leg sweep, sending him crashing to the pavement. Unlike reading Finnegans Wake, it is over quickly. I take Joyce’s homburg as a trophy, jauntily wearing it as I walk off, his groans receding in the distance.

My Sickness

A friend asked how I’d write a horror story for a pre-teen that would take the edge off his growing “too cool for spooky stories” attitude.

“How about a story about a pig that turns into a  ghost?”

“Yeah?” he said.

“And it rapes people to death.”

Dead silence, followed by my other friend Seth’s LOUD declaration, “THAT’S NOT FUNNY!”

Of course it isn’t. But I’d like to see any smart-ass kid come back from that one.

Post No Bills?

While shopping for art for our home, I came across an interesting feature on AllPosters.com that allows you to view your future purchases in the proper context, be it the kitchen, living room, or boudoir. The settings are studiously bland—tastefully appointed with shabby chic or Ikea-like furniture, decorative and wholly unrelated books and magazines, and sundry knickknacks your great grandma would probably find kitschy. All of which leads to the semi-hilarity of viewing certain posters as the focal point of these domestic and dominantly beige scenes.

“Oh, I love what you’ve done with the breakfast nook, Kathy! Ah, you went with an Detroit Proto-punk motif! Divine!”

“My god, this is the longest dry spell of my life! Why can’t I get anyone to stay the night?”

“What? Why aren’t you eating? I made this delicious dinner and… Oh… that? Well, just stop looking at it and eat your ham. Do you want to switch seats? There we go. Okay… You know, I used a little more sage for the potatoes, which really brings out the… Oh come on… So, it’s my fault you’re looking over your shoulder? What? Oh for the love of… BECAUSE IT WAS A GIFT FROM MY MOTHER, THAT’S WHY!”

Science Fantasy

I’m compiling an early science fiction/fantasy collection for my son for when he gets older. I’ll have to include some selections from the Peguin Classics collection as well since Modern Library’s editions don’t always impress me. Modern Library combined “The Strange Case of Dr. Jeckyll and Mr. Hyde,” for instance, with a bunch of other Stevenson stories. I love Stevenson’s work, but there’s only one novel that counts in THIS collection.

I’m working from my memory and a list that somebody suggested to me on Facebook, but I’m open to suggestions (for a change, I’ll leave the comments feature open and just deal with the spam). Originally I wanted to keep it to late 1800s fiction, but perhaps I should move it up to the 1920s. I may even slip some Lovecraft in there. The man was as moldy as any Victorian attic.

Pure Sex

New pocket Moleskines, in an all-new color… RED—appropriately, the color of notebook lust. While I love my journal-size Moleskines, these pocket versions are mighty handy for quick notes. With their soft cardboard covers, they fit very comfortably in my front pants pocket. And while they grow softer and more frayed and wrinkled over time, they remain intact. No metal spirals to snag my clothes either. Believe me, all this makes a difference if you need to carry a notebook with any regularity. Yes, there’s nothing innately superior about Moleskines this size, but… I just like them. The paper feels great and they’re so beautifully visually stripped-down. And I love that red. I can’t wait to fill out my latest notebook so I can start using these.

And a Little Rain Never Hurt No One

32 gallon trash can, about half full with the cleansing rains of last night (boy, those were some pretty big boom-booms, weren’t they?. Usually I remember to turn the can over, but not this time. I was also dim enough to leave it by  the garage, hence la deluge. I hope I can drag it to the garden and spill it out without herniating myself.