Sean Beaudoin

Enough excellent writing to fill a large tube sock

My Books:

"Some Tears May Be Crocodile, But My Salt Is True."

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Lit Crawl Seattle 2015

I love the pure Clockwork Orange oddity of this picture, from Lit Crawl Seattle on Thursday night, which makes it appear that I am reading to myself. But in truth, it was gratifyingly packed and sweaty, as I understand all the events were. In fact, the after-chat seemed to universally agree that this year was the best LC ever. Many thanks to all involved, and in particular Brian McGuigan, who pronounced my name correctly. (If you're wondering why there's a Kleenex box at my foot, it's because I couldn't shake a bad head cold--but also wanted to be able to grab a few and sniff at them imperiously, like Oscar Wilde, if I started to bomb.)

Prison Industrial Complex

Here's the first in a 2-part discussion I conducted with Meg Worden about the time she spent incarcerated, and more broadly, the vast injustice of the American Prison Industrial Complex. The political and social philosophy that underpins locking people in cages, for profit, often for non-violent drug offenses, is itself one of the great ongoing and unexamined crimes of our society.


Portland Unbound

Heading down to Portland for PBNA tomorrow. Killer handbill put together by the crack Algonquin graphics team, which basically makes me look like the lead singer of A-ha breaking out on a solo tour, instead of everyone's favorite recluse flogging a dozen short stories. Coolers permitted! PNBA Arena will be packed!


Never Turn Down A Dare

I was challenged to write the Most Boring Facebook Post Ever. Still not sure if I won a ribbon or not.

The Hungarian film festival is canceled again. I sold my umbrella collection online. Some cheeses smell yellow. That weird patch of skin on my neck still itches. Parakeets in a pet store window. Click here for my thoughts on boycotting tar sands. The Bell Jar would be better translated into emojis. I never learned how to string that souvenir ukulele. My band broke up nine years ago. Soccer is called football in England. Here's three ideas for the best return on your investment. I'm stymied about how to spell stymie. Nutella on an organic carrot. Vin Diesel.


On Arrival

Well, the advance copies are here. I sucked my thumb and slept with one last night.


In Reyjkavik

Somewhere in the middle of the city, walking in the driving rain, taking random lefts. Came across a very old and beautiful cemetery out over the water. Cenotaphs, stone arches, rough hand-cut inscriptions. Many names and dates washed completely away over the centuries, the markers worn down like slumped shoulders. As the rain pounded on my brim and leached into my socks, I had that weird sensation of actually understanding the passage of time, a cycle of carbon rearranged over thousands of years, and the pointlessness of trying to influence it in any way. As always, the glimpse of wisdom evaporated nearly as soon as it came, and I was left standing in front of this particular headstone, no more remarkable than dozens of others surrounding it. Who was Sigurour Briedfjord? What could Iceland possibly have been like in 1799? What deprivations did he suffer, pleasures did he take? Although it felt slightly disrespectful, I took a picture and then walked away, head spinning like some young melancholic in a Rilke poem, and immediately hunted down a warm cafe full of people. There, firmly back in the technological inanity of 2015, and braced by an enormous, frothy mug of Tuborg, I Googled Sigurour. Not only was he easily found, it turns out he was a well-respected traditional poet, and you can buy his stuff on Amazon. His masterpiece is, of course, Numa Rimur. So there you go.


New Book Coming

Well, I guess this makes it official: You can now pre-order Welcome Thieves on Amazon. It's a short story collection, my first foray into adult literature. It's not out officially until February 23rd, but it's undeniably real. It exists. It has a cover and a URL and a price. Man, it's weird. I've been writing and re-writing some of these stories for over ten years. Others are brand new. On some level, part of me never believed they'd really exist. Want a story collection that is rude, funny, original and promises not to set a single story in a hospital, bar, or Pilates studio? Me too.


Before and After the Replacements

Being fifteen and seeing your favorite band for the first time in a tiny club, then seeing them decades later in a "venue" and paying through the nose for your essay I wrote mostly in wistful sighs.


Bands That Never Were

Bands that never existed #228: Waking Snakes. Bass player Ace Waking and longtime songwriting partner/vocalist Danny "Tube" Snakes have re-united and will hit the road this summer as part of the Mystery Karma tour, playing festivals and fair grounds from St. Louis to Boise. Mr. Snakes, reached at his Corpus Christie home, promises, "All the old hits, plus some new rock opera-ish stuff we've been working on." Long-time fans will no doubt be raising lighters and demanding to hear Waking Snakes biggest hit, "Don't Call Me Ishmael", which rose to number ninety-nine on the Big Prog 100 charts in the summer of '92, and then enjoyed a brief resurgence after being sampled by MC Drac Teef for his trip-hop classic, "What What Whassis?" However, ticket sales have lagged as rumors swirl that Mr. Waking has actually joined the cast of Joseph and the Fairly Drab Dreamcoat, and will officially be replaced by Donald Becker when the tour kicks off at the Branson, MO venue the Rowdy Beaver, best known for the six-year residency of comedian Yakov Smirnoff. Said Mr. Smirnoff, when reached by phone, "In Missouri, has-been act steps on you."


Set in Stone

It's official~My short story collection, Welcome Thieves, will be out February 23rd, 2016 (Algonquin Press). I will almost certainly be visiting a city near you to talk all about it, but in the meantime, if you close your eyes, you can almost hear it calling your name.

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"Trail was no longer an accurate term. It was now just the slightest cleft between vegetation, like a rotting green thong pulled tight between the ass cheeks of being lost."

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