New York Rage – The Secret of the Ooze

statue of liberty.jpg

I had my first taste of New York rage a few days ago. I’d just spent forty-five minutes on the subway to Bay Ridge to look at apartments, now ascending the stairs to the surface in the middle of rush hour. The foot traffic on the stairs was shoulder-to-shoulder, every step at full occupancy. At the very top of the stairs and leaning against the last bit of hand rail was a dude, just standing there leaning, looking at his phone, leaning, standing, against the hand rail, standing, a dude, leaning, a five-foot-eight abandoned sack of laundry. His existence at the top of the stairs against the hand rail created just enough of a choke point to throw the entire flow of the more than two hundred exiting subway passengers into disarray.

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On Writing


One thing I’ve been learning to do as a writer* is heed the images that present themselves to me without my asking, and worry about the “why” later, or sometimes, never. I know I know why. And I reject the delusion that I’m so special, no one else will understand. If the image was imminent enough that it surfaced in my mind, chances are it will resonate with plenty of others. Those with whom it doesn’t might at least be intrigued enough to consider why someone else might have the thought (which saves me the trouble of telling them), and those who aren’t even intrigued have no business enjoying art anyway. Just kidding.  Continue reading “On Writing”


sleepinng bag

In a stirring monologue from the film “Big Daddy,” Adam Sandler poetically laments to his surrogate child the slow, agonizing degradation of the human shell:

“When I was your age, I could eat anything I want and wouldn’t gain an ounce. Now, I have a chocolate shake and my ass jiggles for like a week.”

I was fourteen when I saw “Big Daddy” in the theater, and I laughed at this line. I laughed. Oh, if I could only see myself now.  Continue reading “Packing”

Bombs Bursting


We stretched the Fourth of July into a three-day marathon of quality time with quality friends this year, and the occasion once again served as a reminder that America is The Greatest Country in the World, but only if it happens to contain a micro-world composed of loved ones and personal memories and neat things that happens to mean more to you than any of those found in other countries. Continue reading “Bombs Bursting”



I saw a man turning left in his car last week, and it unsettled me because he made the turn while barking. Barking over and over out the window. Not like a dog barking; it was a strange vocalization almost like a sneeze, like, “Aff! Aff! Aff! Aff!” But I tell you, those were no sneezes. They were barks.

He still bothered to use his winker, which around here is an overachievement.

“Aff! Aff!” Indicate. Check mirror. Smooth hand-over-hand motion. “Aff!”

The man probably suffered from a mental illness, but his left turn form was top-notch. The rest of us are doomed and should be ashamed of ourselves.

Continue reading “Intersection”

All is Doku


I was on Twitter on my laptop at Peet’s coffee that morning, relaying to the human race an irreverent thought I’d had about the Peet’s playlist (“Of all the Ramones songs!”) when I saw that William Gibson, the Father of Cyberpunk, had retweeted the following question from a fellow author: “Are there any snake venoms that don’t kill you, but just get you high? Asking for a fictional friend.”

Continue reading “All is Doku



Neuromancer! When I set out to read this book, I feared that maybe I would be too late to the party–that the elements once thought prophetic would now seem quaint, that William Gibson’s groundbreaking vision would fail to land an impact after so many decades of imitation and iteration. I’ve consumed a lot of cyberpunk in my time, and this book predates pretty much all of it, save for Blade Runner. And as much as I still like (one specific version of) Blade Runner, the book which was its basis, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?–did strike me as both quaint and low-impact when I got around to reading it in 2015. I mean, electric sheep? Please come on.

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