"Some Tears May Be Crocodile, But My Salt Is True."
Here it is, and just in time to celebrate our country's independence: my long-promised homage to a great man and personal hero, Mr. Donald Trump. Candidate, statesman, father, mogul, trendsetter, boss.
Or, wait, is he the Worst Person in America? You decide.
Have a quote in the new July issue of Writer's Digest. It appears in an article about creativity and inspiration written by the great Deb Caletti. Check it out.
I seem to have been quoted in the latest Writer's Digest. I honestly have no idea how or why, and I have no recollection at all of writing those sentences. So, you know, not strange at all. Next up: my two cents spotted in an Atlantic article on the fallacy of quantum mechanics. Or on "Pudding as rodent comfort food" in Habitrails & Other Luxury Hamster Villas Digest. Also, I have never been to Kolkata, with or without my Lululemon stretch pants.
May 26, 1926. Would have been 89 today. Still more alive than most people.
The Octo-Fez chaperones a futuristic themed school sock-hop. Oddly, not a single kid came even close to getting out of line.
I think this makes it official: Welcome Thieves is coming. Less than a year from now, it will be in your face. Or on your shelf. Or left under the seat next to you on the bus. Or in the recycling. But it will exist! Can't wait to see the cover.
At that time I was pretty sure the world was an endless golden opportunity. To be indifferently smirked at.
"She is a pretty fascinating casting choice, though. On the surface, what else does Don Draper want besides a rare steak, some scotch, a Jaguar, and a few hours to pretend to read Dante? Jane Russell, of course. Or some similarly pneumatic skirt full of obviousness. But Megan isn’t that at all. She’s tall, gawky, awkward, a tomboy playing at fashion. She’s not your grandfather’s bombshell, she’s the next iteration: Francoise Hardy or Jeanne Moreau. In the 60’s, only bookish, jazz-inflected types with bad perms and an aversion to being stabbed by Norman Mailer would dare fess to craving such smart, arch sexuality. Conversely, the generation of Dons who returned from Utah Beach or Panmunjom were uninterested in a discussion of Beckett over Malbec, predictably insisting on the sort of muscle car blonde the 60s pretended to be full of but rarely was. If only because it turned out that people actually had thoughts and feelings and distinct personalities, all of which got in the way of wooing a less erudite Tina Marie." Check the rest out HERE.
"Joan is all smirk and prow, poured into a truss of pink Angora. Joan is a strafing B-52, dusting cornfields full of lustful men. Joan is the Hindenberg, one massive, vibrating undercarriage floating above Berlin, a zeppelin for every spotlight, a primal shape for every fantasy. She is a near-ancient totem, a matriarchic symbol, a repository of fear and wonder." Check the rest out HERE.