I pitched it to Disney and they were like “we already did that one only with a cat” so I crawled up on the conference room table and started wriggling all around saying “but the eel, man, think of the eel”
later in the same dream I invented a new kind of pizza that you can only eat while driving
hey john! so i know youre not big on getting your picture taken after shows, but i was wondering on like, your status on asking for a hug? im never sure if it's weird or not to ask for a hug from someone i don't really know, and i would never want to make you uncomfortable asking... im sorry if this sort of question bothers you... thanks for taking the time to look at it either way. thank you.
I’ll hug the hell outta anybody, hugs are real and awesome. raincheck on hug for anybody who’s got a cold, can’t get sick must stay grinding
here’s me & Peter last June at the Bottom of the Hill playing through the entirety of the first Mountain Goats tape in sequence, which was kind of a ridiculous thing to do and which I ended up enjoying rather a lot
There’s nothing wrong with stopping seeking out the new and idealising the old, by the way. I mean, as long as you don’t do it for everything you care about, that’s unhealthy. But it’s a big life and you have less and less of it, triage is going to happen. Just don’t be a dick to your ex-interests, or more to the point, to the people who share them.
I wrote and then deleted a pretty giant essay elaborating my complicated feelings about this good point - how I feel like there’s value sometimes in not just disengaging with one’s ex-interests, but really actively renouncing them, nay denouncing them, going over to the other side, joining up with the enemy, etc
but then I would say that, I align zealot
but on the “more to the point” side of the comma, yes 100% co-sign
Hey John, will there be an audiobook for Wolf in White Van? More importantly, will you be reading it?
I put off answering this question until we were done tracking. I just finished doing the reading for the audiobook just now. Literally just now. I am typing from the couch behind the mixing board. Scott Solter recorded it and now we’re going to put some spectral ghostly instrumental music together to lightly thread through the reading here and there.
It’s really interesting reading the whole book through, I haven’t listened back to it yet but I feel like it heads out into some pretty remote interior places, and I’m excited to record the music and see how it fits together!
A Quick Primer for Fiction Writers in using Microsoft Word in the Digital Age It always saddens me a little when a writer sends me an overly formatted Word doc to turn into an ebook or print-on-dem…
This is really useful, and I’d also like to point out that Harmony Ink Press has been reblogging a lot of really interesting resources for aspiring writers.
Or use Mellel, a superior program in every way, and if somebody insists that you send them a Word document, choose “export as .doc” from the pull-down; you never have to open Word again. Ever. You cannot even imagine the joy. I don’t get paid to say this, I’m sure nobody at Mellel has ever heard of me, but I’ve been using their program for years now and it has saved me all the headaches of that ever-popular pre-installed program that makes you shut off all the bells and whistles you never wanted in the first place.
“Even at the Mysteries, he could never get warm,
crowded into the dark with the kist and the serpent,
the smart of pennyroyal on his tongue like a word
he had forgotten to say. Like a frostline in the soil,
the plunge of a colder sea … The sun silvered his hair
like olive leaves, the dry months burnt him browner
than Attic earth; the thin snows fell on Parnes
and he shivered even in the white arms of his bride,
the barley-plaited girl who sang round the well-head
like his elder sisters so long ago, the fallow year
a wanderer sowed blessings in the Eleusinian fields
and burnished him with her touch, an archaic mask
of gold. Like the daimon of his house, the glittering
awn, and still the old nightmare flickered up in him
at an ember’s breath: the fire that smelt of incense,
the shapes falling like a handful of tears, of poppies
and mare’s tails, of a girl’s face and stalks of corn
that glowed like scepters in the unwithering flames.
He had rested so soundly in her old woman’s arms,
his child’s length measured in her lap. The hall
in the shadows that leapt like stooks, the sparks
chaff-tumbling up about them, threshings of godhead,
her seedhead crown. And his mother’s hands dragging him
like a brand from the cinders, blackened, beaten out:
cold running in his veins like time. Yet imperishable
honor will be on him always. A garland of myrtle
at a hero’s tomb, the north wind and the autumn rain
like aulos and kithara for the stitching of songs
he would shatter to the winds if his wife’s arms
would warm him, his children’s bones not shine
like a killing frost, if he could wake a serf,
a slave, memoryless as a ghost, the king’s tall son
and fair as harvest, goddess-dandled, lucky, lost.”—
Homeric Hymn to Demophoon — Sonya Taaffe. (via cerasiferae)