Girls Are Nothing But Trouble–Story #5

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Click on the image to buy the book from Barnes and Noble

 

About half-way through the collection of stories, readers will get to the inevitable sweet story about puppy love. I’m pretty sure every writer who has children has written one of these stories at some point and “Girls are Nothing But Trouble” is mine.

Like many of you, we loved telling stories to our boys. We read to them before naps, every night, and my wife, bless her heart, read to them during our long car drives to see family and on vacations. I’m pretty sure she read the entire Laura Ingalls Wilder catalogue out loud before the oldest boy hit high school.

Books and stories, in other words, were key parts of our house and their childhood.

Many of my favorite stories, though, weren’t books. I’m not sure where we got the idea, but at some point I started telling “choose a word” or “choose a food” story. The boys would each choose 1 word or 1 type of food, and we would make up the story from there. We might, for instance, have a story about the lettuce going bad (smoking cigarettes and cussing out the tomatoes) while the pickles had to save the rest of the fridge from that bad influence. I didn’t say the stories were always high quality.

“Girls are Nothing But Trouble” is a story I started when my older son was in middle school and my wife and I started watching his friends fall in “love.” Like “Love is Not a Dirty Word,” this story moved along pretty quickly, mostly because it’s relatively simple. There’s a school dance coming up, a P.E. coach whose a tough old bird, and a middle school boy who all of sudden realizes his best friend (a girl who is a really good athlete) is not only faster than him, but she has beautiful eyes and pretty hair.

“Girls are Nothing But Trouble” is the longest story in the collection, and without a doubt the cleanest story. It’s also one I hope that someday my sons can read to their children before bed. Wouldn’t that be cool.

Girls are Nothing But Trouble

I didn’t want to kiss Maria Williamson, and I sure as heck didn’t want to dance with her. Maria’s this girl I’ve known for a long time but she changed over the summer. I mean, not in a bad way or anything, but she started brushing her hair more often and sometimes I can’t remember what I wanted to tell her. We used to sit around and talk about sports and teachers and stuff, but when I see her now, I get three times stupid and stuck on dumb. That’s what my dad says when I get tongue tied around him so I guess it makes sense with Maria, too.

The truth is that life was a whole lot simpler before the sixth grade and school dances. Some days I wish I was still a first grader like my brother Robbie. He’s kind of a baby and all, but what does he have to worry about? I mean, sure, my mom bugs him about brushing his teeth and she still helps him in the bathtub, but he never gets in trouble. The only thing he ever has to care about is whether he’ll have enough time at recess to hang upside down and turn his face purple. When he gets hurt, he crawls up in my mom’s lap. Last week I cut my leg and my dad told me to walk it off and act like a man. I’m not even sure what that means, but I know no one’s asked me to sit in their lap lately. My parents would never admit it, but I can tell they like him best.

(If you want to find out if girls are worth the trouble or not, click on the image above or visit Amazon to order Love is Not a Dirty Word and Other Stories.)

Love Is Not a Dirty Word–Story #4

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Click on the link to purchase the book

 

I’ll admit that it was pretty cool this morning going to Amazon and Barnes and Nobles and seeing the book sitting on their cyber book shelf waiting for eager readers. If you click on the photo next door, you  will go to Amazon. You can also buy the book on Barnes and Nobles site (click on the hyperlink). I mentioned a long time ago, I’m not going to get rich selling a book of short stories, but I would like it to sell well enough that the publisher breaks even. Lamar University Press is a small press, and we need to show some love for those folks who work tirelessly to keep publishing writers who might not ever make the big time.

When you read below, you will see the opening paragraphs of the collection’s title story. “Love Is Not A Dirty Word” was my first fiction publication and probably went through the least amount of revision before going into the book.

Last night at the 19th Annual Angelo State Writers Conference in Honor of Elmer Kelton, Dan Choan mentioned that he’s started making up town names to avoid hearing from various Chamber of Commerces. Cleveland, where Choan lives, he said isn’t particularly happy with the way he portrays the city.

This strikes me as an ever present danger when you write fiction. Readers, especially family and friends, tend to look for themselves or shared moments as they read the stories. But, as Choan pointed out last night, the art of writing fiction is the act of inhabiting various lives. Writers float in and out of people and things, taking what they need before flitting to the next thing.

The title story certainly has some connections to my personal life. I live in San Angelo and my wife and I have to drive to Houston for Thanksgiving and Christmas if we want to see her family. It’s also true that the idea for this story did come about on a drive to Houston one Thanksgiving. We left early and near Buchanan, we saw a deer (or what was left of it) on the side of the road. About a 100 yards further down, the highway was blood-stained. I guess I was in a bad mood that day, though, because all I could think about was how we hurtle down the road to visit people, battling memories the whole time. Nietzsche once wrote that “When we are tired, we are attacked by ideas we conquered long ago.”  That quote actually makes into another story in the collection, but I had this sense of the irony regarding holiday travel and the stress associated with it and that blood stain somehow seemed important.

Interestingly, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with that blood stain when I started writing, but this story, unlike many moved pretty seamlessly along. I knew from the outset the bulk of the story would take place in a car, on the highway, and that music would be important. I wanted to see how the tension–the excitement, resentments, happiness, anger, love, family, marriage–that the holidays seem to evoke might play out for this young couple as they drive to see her family. I’m not saying the story was an easy write (because I’m not sure any story is easy to write), but I didn’t struggle as I moved between characters.

So, in so far as I have a wife, drive to Houston, and like music, this story is all about me. All the other details must be about some other body I spent some time in.

Love is Not a Dirty Word

Five-thirty in the morning and San Angelo is crispy cool, with patches of ice on the rooftops. West Texas in the fall—what we lack in color we make up for in clear skies tinged with wood smoke from early morning fires. My wife and I are headed to Houston for her family’s annual Thanks- giving celebration, and the car is packed with clothes and Christmas presents we’ll deliver early. I’ve always insisted on at least one major holiday at home, even though I would prefer all of them. We’ve started alternating Christmas and Thanksgiving with maybe one extra trip to Houston each y year. My wife has eight brothers and sisters and twenty-five nieces and nephews. The first Christmas we spent with her family, I pointed to the noise and mayhem and offered to buy everyone a pack of condoms as stocking stuffers.

“Good thing we don’t have kids, or they’d have to ride strapped to the roof.” I slide into the car.

She doesn’t laugh—who would at 4:30 in the morning? I envision driving the sun up, Diana Krall in the cd player, and a hot cup of coffee.

“Will you be okay if I go to sleep?” She rubs the back of my neck.

“I will unless you keep that up.”

I’m accelerating onto Highway 67 toward Eden, sipping my coffee and grooving to “Popsicle Toes.”

“Mom called last night. Fred and Julie won’t be around, neither will Aunt Barbara’s family. Maybe a stray cousin or two.”

“That’s a real shame. I’m not so lucky about the Jesus-freaks, am I?” I can almost hear Jennifer roll her eyes. I take a sip of coffee. “I sure hope Neal will be there. His conversation is always so stimulating.”

(If you want to find out how where the dead deer shows up (or if the Jesus-freaks are as bad as they sound), click on the image above and buy the book.)

It Will Get Better–Story #3

When I PressRelease-Wegner (2)decided to move forward with a collection and send it off to Lamar UP, I had a variety of completed stories that needed revision, but I also knew I needed 2-3 more stories to round out the collection. Like many folks who write, I have half a story here, an opening paragraph there, and a sketched out image in some manila folder some where else. “It Will Get Better” was one of those sketches.

I had this half a page scene where a middle school boy has to read his “What I Did Last Summer” essay to the class. In that early draft, he didn’t want to read the story because his parents were fighting and their marriage was going to hell.

I wasn’t all that interested in what the boy did last summer, but I did want to know why his parents were fighting so much. In many ways, this story wrote itself from the middle out. In the scene I already had, the narrator is sitting at his desk watching the other kids read. He sees this girl walk past, and he notices this little string hanging from her pants. I think when I started the scene (before I put the sketch away to work on something else), I had in mind that little string would serve as a path for both his coming of age and as a kind of momentary stay from the confusion of his family life.

When I started writing the story, though, I looked back to his summer. He watched his parents fighting. Dad started going out at all hours, coming home all drunk and nasty. One night his parents fight and his mom yells “I never wanted this. You should have told me ….”

I remember stopping while I was writing. I wanted to know what he should have told her.

Forget the string, my fingers seemed to say. Dad’s homosexual and he’s tired of hiding it. This story, then, is about this boy who has to write that he spent last summer finding out dad should have told mom he preferred men before they got married, not after having a child. I wrote a scene where the dad and son were raking leaves and even as a sixth grader, the son can sense something. Dad drops hints.

I had these two scenes before I ever wrote an opening. If I’m 12 in the mid 1980s and I find out my dad is homosexual, I thought, what would I do?

More importantly to a 6th grader, how would I keep it a secret? It might be pretty to think all his friends would understand back then, but I doubt it. The kids I grew up around certainly would have been merciless.

I opened the story with these two older boys about to graduate. They had been drinking on the junior high roof when the cops show up. Dad has to drive them home, and I had this sense that the boy who had to write about his summer back in the 6th grade would come to some understanding that a homosexual dad was just another dad. He would tell Chance Henderson this secret and Chance would help him cope.

Sounds so nice, right?

Well, I hope no one is that interested in that story because that’s not what happened.

The essay assignment is still there. The boy’s parents fight. There’s a scene where they rake leaves, and the two boys do drink beer on the roof.

That’s about all that survived.

Once I started the story, I didn’t want the boy to struggle to understand his dad.

He needed to struggle with his own sexuality. And that string is hanging from Chance Henderson’s Levi 501 button flies not Mary Grace’s Jordache jeans.

We are, the story wants to say, what we are, and we all fall in love the same way regardless of our sexual orientation. In many ways, the idea here is that love is love, regardless of who we are attracted to. Guess what, though. Heart break also transcends gender.

Here’s a couple paragraphs to wet your appetite. (Or turn you off, as the case may be.)

It Will Get Better

“‘He’s like a damn bobble head.’ Chance moved his head around in a kind of slow motion wiggle.

I glanced at him and then looked at the men in the parking lot. We leaned against a tree near the Glenn Middle School gym while my dad signed some papers, nodding his head when the sheriff’s deputy or the tow truck driver asked a question. He rocked back on his heels moving his hands as he talked.

I could see my dad sigh as he shook hands with the deputy. He watched him walk back to his cruiser and then followed the tow truck driver to his vehicle. They said a word or two, and he stepped back, raising his hand in a small wave as the strobe lights went off. The darkness was stark and sudden, and we could hear the diesel engine clattering as the truck drove off with Chance’s blue Mustang secured on the flatbed.

My dad took his glasses off, pinched his nose, and ran his hand from his hair line to his chin. He crooked his finger in our direction and gave it a little wag. We were already about halfway there.

“I’ll tell you what…” he paused. “I realize two teenage boys have the brain power of a couple used tires, but you two,” he shook his head, “I don’t know. It’s like you took a class in dip-shit 101. Right here near graduation and you’re on the roof drinking beer and doing god knows what.”

I hadn’t been paying attention until he stopped talking, but when I looked up he was staring at me. He glanced at the roof and then at Chance. I followed his gaze, and I could see Chance’s face in the pale street light, smiling as if he was waiting for my dad to tell a joke or say something important. My dad’s mouth was partly open as if unsure what to say next.”

If you want to know how Chance and our narrator wind up on the roof of Glenn Middle School and find out if the dad ever knows what to say next, the collection should be available tomorrow. Click on the press release above for more information.

We Don’t Buy School Shirts in This Family–Story # 2

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Click to view the press release

William Wordsworth writes that “The world is too much with us; late and soon,/ Getting and spending, we lay waste to our powers;/ Little we see in Nature that is ours;/ We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!” Wordsworth’s sonnet attacks what he saw as a growing materialism, and he’s imploring his audience to get back to nature. Like any great 19th century Romantic poet, Wordsworth saw an impending doom as humanity increasingly commodified nature and relationships.

Admittedly, though, I find the Romantic poets a bit tedious. Certainly, their criticisms of the growing industrial complex of the 19th century were valid, but their solutions were too often unrealistic and naive. It’s all good and well, I want to say to Wordsworth, to criticize our growing desire for material goods, but the solution probably isn’t going back to a farm that no longer exists and probably wasn’t sustainable when it did.

More importantly, flowery sonnets and well-turned phrases don’t put food in my kid’s stomach.

At the heart of the second story in the collection, “We Don’t Buy School Shirts in This Family,” is the idea that love isn’t some abstract idea when the “world is too much with us.” It’s easy to treat folks with respect, hug our children, and carry a song in our hearts if we have a good job, a full belly, and a sense of self-fulfillment. When the bills are due and your boss is riding your ass at work, though, life at home might not always be a refuge from the pressures of daily life.

Personally, I find the opening image of a small child wearing one of his parent’s old school shirts endearing, and the fact they can’t afford to buy him one of his own is sad. We’ve been lucky in our house. While we have pictures of my son wearing a Wilkerson Wildcats t-shirt (his mother’s when she was in school), we’ve also been able to buy school shirts if we wanted. In fact, we still have their school shirts and look forward to handing those boxes off when they have children of their own. Like photos, those shirts carry memories of a past that as parents we hope was filled with good times, joy, and love. Some days a little nostalgia is a balm against the rising tide of chaos.

But what happens when our lives go off the rails? The characters in this story struggle to reconcile the harsh reality of a life poorly lived with love and family.

For me, writing this story was interesting because the ending surprised me. When I started the story, I had a very specific image in mind about how I would close the story. Little Bobby Pritchard would get his Travis Tornado shirt, but it would be so late in the year he was too embarrassed to want it anymore. I’m sure it would have been brilliant and heart breaking.

As I wrote, though, the harsh and ugly reality of his home life took over and that ending went by the wayside. All I can do is assure you embarrassment is the least of Bobby’s worries when this story ends. As with yesterday’s entry, the paragraphs here are from the 4th Galley Proofs. Any errors are from the copy and paste.

We Don’t Buy School Shirts in This Family

“Bobby Pritchard stood in the hall wearing a pair of faded, too-big shorts and a Wilkerson Wildcats t-shirt. It used to be his mommy’s when she was in the first grade. Bobby is a Travis Tornado, but we don’t buy school shirts in this family. She told Bobby she would keep her eyes open at some garage sales, but he knows she’ll never find such a shirt.

Straddling the bedroom door frame, Bobby could see Mommy and Daddy sitting on the couch. He watched Daddy’s head tilt back as he took a drink, and Bobby heard t.v. words he knew he shouldn’t. Mommy’s head was bent forward, hunched like she was trying to protect her head. Every once in awhile she shrugged the way Bobby did at school when he was tired. Occasionally, he heard laughter followed by a grunt from the couch.

Bobby’s daddy doesn’t sound like they do on t.v. Not anymore. When they used to wrestle on the floor, Bobby could see his happiness before he heard it. Bobby would pretend to be a tickle monster, and Daddy’s laugh would wrap itself around him like a giant bubble where nothing could hurt him. He hasn’t been the tickle monster in a long time, and since last summer Daddy’s laughter has become hard and short like the rat-a-tat-tat of a machine gun on t.v.”

If you are interested in the ending (or anything in the middle), click on the press release above to learn more about purchasing the collection. The stories should available on Amazon Jan. 30.

All Beat to Hell

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Click for the news release

 

Over the next 2 weeks or so, I’m going to begin the marketing campaign (a polite way to shamelessly plug my new book) for Love is Not a Dirty Word and Other Stories. You can click on the press release to the left to learn more, and Friday the book should be available on Amazon, etc for purchase. (That’s pretty exciting to write, by the way.)

Despite the fact that I am so tired of reading these stories I may not even keep a copy of the book in my house, I’m going to post the first couple of paragraphs of each story in the coming days.

Before we get to those introductions, though, I’m going to do the coffee house thing and intro each story. Forgive my pretentiousness.

Originally, I was going to title the collection “Trailer Park Stories,” and “All Beat to Hell” is one of the stories set in such a place. Set in a trailer park (in what I imagine in my head to be someplace near Houston,) the story starts when our narrator sees a face from the past on the front page of the newspaper.

As anyone who writes knows, fiction is not biography but we know that fiction has deep roots in real moments. Mary Gauthier, a great song writer and troubadour, once said in an interview that all her songs start with her but she hopes they never finish with her.

Yeah. What she said.

I suspect that throughout these stories, family and friends might recognize scenes but I hope they don’t want to argue “it didn’t happen that way!” Of course not. One of the joys of fiction writing is taking that moment you might have experienced and shaping it to fit a new world with scenes you can imagine.

The story below, “All Beat to Hell,” started with a memory that probably isn’t even a real memory. At some point in my childhood, we are living in a trailer park on the gulf coast and a girl is sitting on the trunk of a car. She has long hair and she’s sassing every kid around. That’s where the memory ends. I have no idea why I remember that moment. Nothing happened. I have no idea who that person is or what happened to her.

As often happens, though, I was in HEB years back and the check out girl had this long black hair and a wry little smile. She wasn’t particularly good looking but there was something about the way she talked and rang up the groceries that made her seem unique, a little out of place in the 15 items or less aisle.

Her name was Lydia. I remember leaving the store that day and rolling her name around on my tongue, wondering how Lydia wound up ringing groceries at the HEB. While I’m sure some neuroscientist could parse out how Lydia reached back into the recesses of that memory and became the girl on the trunk, but I won’t pretend to do so.

But my memory of the girl on the trunk now has an ending.

The story, though, isn’t really about Lydia, but it is about remembering Lydia. Our narrator sees an old friend dead on the front page of the paper and the past intrudes on his morning routine, taking him back to a place he likes to ignore even as he realizes you can’t ever really forget the past.

The text below is from the fourth galley proofs. I think I caught all the formatting errors from the copy and paste. The book becomes available later this week on Amazon, etc. I hope you enjoy it, but if not there’s no reason to let me know.

“All Beat to Hell”

“I was living in some graduate student dorms in Denton, about two semesters away from a PhD in Chemical Engineering, when I saw Davey Williams’ picture on the front page of the Dallas Morning News. It was the kind of story I normally skip—“Cop Killer Gunned Down”—but the image caught my eye. Face down in a pool of blood, a half smile rose from the maroon puddle like a demented drama mask. His right leg was bent toward his chest almost in mid-stride, and his left arm extended to a gun just out of reach. The periphery of the photo showed police and paramedics
rushing inside the convenience store, but the dead body held center stage. His eye was half opened as if the camera’s flash blinded him for a moment, but I kept looking at the mouth and I could hear his voice from a summer I tried not to think about often.

It’s 1985 in the Heritage Oaks Mobile Home Park and the Saturday after school let out for the summer. Colton, Davey, and I had spent most of the morning standing around telling jokes and talking shit—trying to sound tough and more hardened than we felt. We were sixteen at the time, but Colton’s birthday was the next week and his dad was taking him to look at a truck that afternoon. Nothing new or fancy, but an engine with four wheels attached was better than what any of us had at the time. Back then, or at least in the neighborhood where we grew up, everyone had more drivers than cars. Colton and I both had a license, but we shared vehicles with our families and parents got first dibs. I didn’t get a car to myself until I was a senior, and even then I had to pay for half of it.”

If you want to read the rest of the story and find out all about Lydia, you have to pony up the $15.

Press Release Cast Out Upon the World

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Click on the image to go to the press release

 

I promised (or threatened, depending on your impression of such things) that I would begin my various acts of shameless self-promotion this week.

If you click on the link next door, you can read the press release for my upcoming collection of short fiction. You can spend all the money grandma gave you for Christmas starting Jan. 30. Remember–You don’t have to read it; you just have to buy it.

As with all good things, I’ll start posting the first 100 or so words of the stories tomorrow. I had planned to begin today but it’s 6:30 and it’s been Monday all day.

Since I don’t really have anything else to write today and I’m about ready to go home and eat supper, I’ll say that I dig the cover. This picture started as a normal photo until my two sons suggested we turn it into this comic image. The porch swing, evocative of stability and familial connection, works, I think, ironically in some respects. The photo of me simply proves that I’m not photogenic.

You can’t know if the porch swing is ironic, of course, because none of you have read the stories. Of course, it’s also true that just because I wrote the stories doesn’t mean I really know what they are about either. I remember listening to a Reginald McKnight interview once. A student asked him what an image in a short story meant and he said “Kids do weird shit.” He followed by reminding the student that the writer and the critic are two separate people. When the writer begins to discuss his work, he went on, he becomes another critic. D.H. Lawrence always told us to trust the tale not the teller and Elmer Kelton used to remind audiences that story telling is just another way to tell lies.

Having written all that, tune in tomorrow for the opening 100 words or so from my collection. I’ll include some commentary about where the story started.

But I wouldn’t believe anything I write if I were you.

That Makes Sense

I know that yesterday’s (Tuesday’s) blog and shameless self promotion promised to start posting the first 100-200 words of my upcoming short story collection, but like that guy on the dating site who tells you he has 6-pack abs and a full head of hair, I lied.

I am, as we make our way through the week, in the last editing phase of the galley proofs and I want to finish that read through before I post anything. It’s also true that, as anyone who has published and edited, I am pretty sick and tired of my own stories at this point. In many ways, I’ve moved in with these characters for the last year and some of them are pretty annoying.

Either way, we’ll get to those folks soon enough. In the mean time, I’m beginning my new phase of blogging, focusing on quicker entries, links, and insights (one hopes) about the world around us.

1. Earlier this year, the Texas Legislature decided they needed panic buttons installed in their offices. Evidently, some “right to carry” advocates showed up at the state house and our elected officials have decided that passionate people with loaded weapons are scary. To which I say–no shit. Instead of spending millions installing panic buttons, how about we pass a law that disallows carrying loaded weapons into every building in the state. In the meantime, if they get panic buttons, I want one in my office, too. And in Target, the gas station, and my car.

2. In keeping with tradition, Governor Abbott has named Boards of Regents at UT, A&M, and the Texas Tech system. In a twist, he did add some diversity to the Boards. At least one of the new regents only donated $40,000 to his campaign instead of $500,000. I guess he wanted one average Joe in the room while all the experts decided how our flagship universities will be run. Has anyone else noticed that the more politicized the Board of Regents becomes, the higher tuition gets?

3. Speaking of tuition, Senator Schwertner has filed a bill to re-regulate tuition. Evidently, our elected officials have been shocked that universities have raised tuition in equal portion to the cuts and unfunded mandates they keep passing in Austin.

4. Tony Earley’s Mr. Tall: A Novella and Stories is pretty interesting. I didn’t much favor Earley’s Jim the Boy. Earley’s characters were a bit too hackneyed in places for my taste. The stories in Mr. Tall, though, seem to avoid such stereotypes and manage to offer a little poignancy without being melodramatic.

5. The story behind Jose Saramago’s Skylight is almost as interesting as the novel itself. Saramago is a Portuguese writer and winner of the 1998 Nobel. Saramago’s later novels where often experimental attempts to undermine narrative. I always had this sense that he wanted to capture not just the way we tell stories but how we hear them. In many ways, he tried to break down that false barrier writers need to show breaks in dialogue. Much like when we listen to a story but our mind is forming our response or even our later attempts at creating our own narrative of the narrative moment, Saramago’s later work gives us these long passages that contain a very human mixture of insight and ignorance. Skylight, his first novel that sat unpublished in an editor’s desk (wouldn’t you hate to be that guy?) is a simpler narrative. Accessible without being simple. In many ways, it’s a fascinating look at the development of a writer. You can see glimpses of the writer he will become. Either way, a really nice intro to a great writer we will surely miss in the future.

6. After watching Key and Peele’s Obama and Luther Addressing the Critics, I couldn’t watch the State of the Union Address. I’ve read the transcript and the Republican response. Let’s see: unemployment is at 5.6%, we have the most jobs created since 1999, the stock market has tripled, healthcare costs are dropping and more people are covered than ever before, gas prices are below $2.50 because we have drilled her and drilled now, and the Republicans are going to save us from President Obama’s failed economic policies? They should be lucky to fail so well in the next two years. Of course, now that they control the House and Senate their first two bills were Keystone and abortion. That makes sense. Keystone can only work if TransCanada can use imminent domain to steal private land and the Republicans, those good folks who pretend like they want small government, can’t keep their hands off women’s bodies.

Bear with me over the next weeks as I get used to this new blog type. I like the listing above and the short comments, but I’ll admit that I have to work out some kinks.

But, heck, if the rest of the world doesn’t make sense, I’m not sure I feel an overwhelming obligation to do either.

Things I Read

And Things I Learned

Washington Monthly

Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

Joanne Jacobs

Thinking and Linking by Joanne Jacobs

Inside Higher Ed

Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

FiveThirtyEight

Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

Balloon Juice

Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

Scott Adams' Blog

Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

The Full Feed from HuffingtonPost.com

Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)

The Dish

Do I contradict myself? / Very well then I contradict myself, / (I am large, I contain multitudes.)