oh yeah? hm... i read this one story. in reader's digest. forever ago. probably the late 70s then, like ten years ago, a friend was telling me about a story he'd read, and it was THE SAME ONE!
it was about this kid that didn't have any arms or legs. and then his uncle... i'm gonna tear up just saying it... he builds this kid a whole house, adapted so he could do everything he needed.
did you read that one?
um. no. (wanting to say, but biting tongue: it sounds kinda like something i'd publish though. except, you know, without any of those uplifting parts)
Some dopey kid said I have “shitty taste in music” because I love Taylor Swift & Pink. It’s good to be reminded that some people haven’t figured out that their distaste for pop is simply—I insist it is simply—a class marker. If you want to live in an aesthetically foreclosed world where your love…
I found a major plot hole in the first episode in the cold open. The scene in this episode where Skylar made a tiny 1 from a half piece of bacon got me thinking about the cold open.
Walt rips his bacon in half and makes a 52 without any leftover bacon. But to make a 52 with bacon, you need 10 half pieces, 5 for the 5 and 5 for the 2. But Denny’s breakfast comes with 4 slices of bacon, so Walt should of only had 8 half pieces to make his 52. No Denny’s meal comes with 5 slices of bacon, and side bacon comes in multiples of 2 or 4. So there is a mystery piece of bacon. Where did it come from? Is Jr. around so he could steal a piece? Is Walt evolving, and not even trading half pieces for full pieces since his 51st birthday? This is a pretty serious plot hole for a show that takes breakfast and Denny’s this seriously.
There is some funny business going on here. How can Vince write himself out of this hole? Has Walt sinked so low as to steal strangers bacon? Is the mystery bacon foreshadowing? I think there is a better explanation.
Since Vince doesn’t make mistakes, and not even Walt would steal a whole piece of bacon, it must mean the cold open is a dream.
it’s a beautiful collection out from Short Flight / Long Drive. Seriously check it out. You can find some of the stories online— I fucking love “Their Health,” which will take you about 60 seconds to read. Go do it. Right now.
We’re working on this Hobart web relaunch and… I’m currently looking for the most Hobart-y photo possible. This could be photoshopped, or a bunch of things compiled and actually photo’d together. I’m assuming it would include some combo of buffalo and baseball and fireworks and bourbon and…? But maybe not? Maybe that’s too obvious? Send my way (via photo reply, or email, or however else makes sense)!!
The fund-raiser is taking place at the home of one Harold Hamm, an oil honcho who is the energy chairman for the Romney campaign. Harold Hamm holds the number 30 spot on Forbes magazine’s inventory of the most loaded Americans…
The surrounding area of the Hamm home isn’t superfancy. It’s a zone of brick ramblers and nonbrick ramblers, but ramblers, ramblers far as the eye can see. I suspect I could make some cash in this neighborhood selling welcome mats embroidered SECOND STORIES ARE FOR QUEERS.
They say Mitt Romney is a robot. They say he is an unusually handsome cyborg. They say if you opened up his chest, you’d see a pile of crackling circuitry or maybe a bale of old straw. And as we prepare (finally!) to crown him the Republican nominee in Tampa,…
Some books have a colour palette. Certain colours tinge the prose, or give the impression of appearing in the furniture, scenery, shadow, across the spread of tales. This occupies a bleed zone between poor remembrance of detail and a synesthetic approach to these details.
I know, for example, that not every story in Fast Machine features a rusty, 70s orange colour. And yet, it’s there carpeting my head. And, too, I see pinkish blood stains. I see the particular shade of brown which occupy themselves with breeding in dingy motel rooms.
This feeling, this back-of-the-mind consciousness, in response to Ellen’s work, is I think a tribute to the unity that exists therein.
Both upcoming Hobart 14 contributor (and Buffalo Prize Winner!) Courtney Maum’s "How to Stay Sane While Querying Literary Agents" and Hobart 12 contributor (and soon to be reprinted in Best American Short Story!) Roxane Gay’s "How to Be a Contemporary Writer" are pretty great and worth your time and we maybe even encourage you to highlight and print out excerpts for yourself, though both did forget to mention this very important reminder:
“(7) I have the cashmere coat that my great grandfather, Charles Dwight Curtiss I (a) (b) wore when he worked in Washington D.C. designing the interstate system that my brother and I once used to drive across country. It was the first time we’d spent that much time together after our older sister died on a country road when she missed a stop sign in what I sometimes imagine was a successful suicide attempt and other times imagine was a mistake. The coat is too big for me and too small for my brother. I keep it in my closet where it’s slowly consumed by moths, a fact I pretend not to know.
(a) (who begat Proctor & Gamble executive, Charles Dwight Curtiss II, who begat Water Chemist, Charles Dwight Curtiss III, who begat my brother and my sisters and me)
(b) Shortly after I was born, my great-grandfather visited me in the hospital. At that point, my brain was a mass of unpaved passageways, my body a collection of cells which have all since been replaced with new cells. A few months later, he died, and his body didn’t matter anymore.”—
I missed this when it it went up in June, but it’s easily my fave poem/personal essay (?) in quite a while. (Ever? Have I ever read anything quite like it?) The above excerpt is pretty great, but also doesn’t really do the whole justice. I can’t encourage enough to follow through and read it in its entirety. Go read it!