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Film at Eleven. No offense, but I’m going to say something offsensive. I’m sick of a certain type of news commentary that’s a response to original news commentary, specifically, the derivative news commentary that states that the original news commentary is bullshit, and here’s why, with quotes so extensive I should be paying royalties. OK. […]

Chess. You and I we’ve seen it all chasing our heart’s desires but we go on pretending stories like ours have happy endings…

Dreams. First dream. Well, it starts out as one of those fantasy dreams whose details I won’t divulge, but I start crying because all of a sudden I don’t know where I am, and then I start crying harder because I do realize where I am, and that’s not where I started the dream. Second

Raynews. Ray had her fifteen-month checkup yesterday. The verdict is “the picture of health.” The doctor subscribes to a whole-life treatment view of medicine, so we’re always getting these weird questions, like, “How do you discipline your child?” which shoots me off on a discussion. Ray doesn’t respond to spanking. I’ve tried it on those

Karma. If you know Colors, I’m a green. If you know Meyers-Briggs, that means NT. Among other things, it means that that strange and wonderful art known as “tact” is not only one that I am unable to create but one that leaves me as mystified as most people are about Kandinsky. I finally finished

The Perfect Gift. The thing about people people is that they think the gesture is everything. “It’s the thought that counts.” The thing about analytical people, like me, is that we think the gesture is diddly squat. It’s the stuff that counts. It isn’t the timing–fuck birthdays–it’s the essence. Casual conversation will lead us on

Pistachios. Once a year or so we buy pistachios. There is no forseeable point to this story; you can skip it. Not some pistachios, but a bulk of pistachios. I will avoid chewing off my fingernails for a couple of day so I can pick them open. This year was a “wreath” of dyed pistachios,

Afternoon off. Used bookstore in town called “Author Author,” run by two women writers. They had Bridge of Birds and Eight Skilled Gentlemen by Barry Hughart. “Barry Hughart,” one of them said. “Any good? ‘A novel of an ancient China that never was.’” I was dumbfounded for about three or four seconds. What do you

The Writing. So a couple of good ideas came my way. The ones I’m using: A laptop fund jar — don’t write, a dollar out. Write, a dollar an hour. Write before bedtime. Get mucho help from spouse if bebe is still up. Result: progressing at the average rate of a page a day, as

Dream. So I’m wandering through this museum looking for someone. The harder I look, the harder it becomes to look, and the more I need to find this person, until I’m walking on a hanging bridge about a foot wide without handholds, and whoever it is I’m looking for (I don’t know) is going to