rest in peace, elliott smith.

jesus, this year has been brutal.


paul called sunday night to bid us adieux before leaving for guatemala. in the same way that his mother felt sure he should wear a tuxedo to val and grant's wedding, i felt sure he should have a tee shirt saying MY PARENTS WON'T RANSOM ME. then my mom called before her trip to nantucket. i forgot to warn her about dirty limericks.

the hazmat review sent an issue proof the other night - huzzah, four poems instead of the one i expected! if you're in san francisco, rochester, or borders, you can pick up a copy at new year's. the collection is 90% better than my pieces, or about what i wanted.


the haiku duel is over.

let's all pity the poor fan who sank last night's game for the cubs. in my morning tap dance across america's newspapers, i must have read a dozen articles about the guy. was it in colombia that a world cup player was killed for costing his team the series? this isn't as dramatic, one could argue, but most of the time i fear baseball fans more than i fear colombians. soccer only damaged me that one time, when i dreamed of a goal kick and woke up spraining my toes against the wall.


you shall know our velocity! / dave eggers: sometimes i think that young people shouldn't write about being young. maybe they should write about it, but only once, or they should write and write and then sit on their material so that it can be fresh and unexpected when they publish at age fifty. eggers is a good guy, and i liked his nonfictional heartbreaking work of staggering genius very much. this novel is also about death and perceived futility, also confessional and exclamatory and consciously maudlin, and it's way over the top. not so poignant with the same themes, at least when characters seem so similar to, well, eggers as eggers in work. i could be resenting him because i myself can't fictionalize, but my poems are short. less space in which to be self-indulgent.

i say skip the novel and go to an eggers reading instead. he's too flighty to risk posturing so much in person, and he's quite funny off the cuff.

on writing, paul and his novel still need an agent. i still need to buckle down and write something more substantial than fake haiku.

frantic octopus
sheltering in laundry bag
cannot match our plaids


i was thinking that if i got to work extra early, extra chipper, the universe's late birthday present would be a closed office. no, no, the media waits for no woman.

after-hours celebrity sighting, courtesy of mari as we chomped pierogi in the east village: the y tu mama tambien guy who wasn't tenoch. it was a very good call - i was too busy reading the TRICK OR BORSCHT signage to peoplewatch with diligence.

happy birthday, lauren - i'm not ignoring you! i thought you were in cambodia*!

*the second-best honest excuse ever; the first involves sandra and a research station in antarctica.


and then i was in the penthouse of the magnate's skyscraper with the waify actress and the rapper's posse, cringing as people set their champagne flutes on furniture i couldn't afford with a year's salary. it's tempting to adopt a how to learn swedish writing style, to refer to notable people by profession and attempt to tell office stories - but kidchamp is too far along to do anonymity well. if you're ever in the mood for silly celebrity stuff, drop me a line - that could work.

the dark side, today's dark side of feeling overqualified for my gig is that when something goes wrong, i'm extra-ashamed about looking incompetent. in the hierarchy of fifty things i'm regularly asked to handle, the lowest five are the ones that come back to gnaw on my ass. it's a lame echo of being the kid who got 50% scores on tests after forgetting to flip the page. who, erm, took the driver's permit exam five times, though there were only three versions.


it's a week of creaky bones: val the beloved college roommate was married on sunday, and other lauren and i are turning twenty-five in a few days.

on the first happening, i have learned that it's unwise to flip around in a wedding program when one is maybe getting caught on the wedding film. that paul develops the ability to breakdance when he drinks for two. that happy crying is still a bit sad; that showing up at kinko's at four in the morning in a tuxedo will not excite comment.
Growing up in postwar Austria, Arnold Schwarzenegger showed no political interests and certainly no political ambitions. In fact, he claimed no ambitions at all. "All I want is to go out in the world with a stick, a hat and a monkey," he would say.

LONDON (Reuters) - Call him Moore, Sir Roger Moore.

The former James Bond actor, 75, was knighted by Queen Elizabeth on Thursday for his work as a goodwill ambassador for the United Nation Children's Fund.

"(The Queen) congratulated me on my work with UNICEF, which she said must be very satisfying -- and she also mentioned 007 too," Moore told Sky News.

Moore became a television star in the 1960s series "The Saint" and took over the role of secret agent 007 from Sean Connery in the 1973 film "Live and Let Die." His last Bond film was 1985's "A View to a Kill."

The London-born actor collapsed while performing on Broadway in May and was subsequently fitted with a pacemaker.

"I was very fortunate to get my heart sorted out with a pacemaker and it's ticking away like mad and doing a little overtime today," he said.

He even had a word for fellow actor turned politician Arnold Schwarzenegger, who stormed to election victory in California and will become the state's next governor.

"If he does all the things that he says he will, then California will be an even better place to live in," said Moore.


descriptor of the day: maurice villency-ish

that is all.