(But I ain't that lonely yet)

✖ First things, um, second. I have, over the past few days, driven hundreds of miles, connected with representatives from Camdonia, Dio Rai Janeiro, Shaflorracia, and the extended Team Fahs Network. I have gone crazy buck shit, and been hated on for it. I have fielded haranguing shaved Nebraskan phone calls re the Sarchicha vs. Sarceecha debate. (And for that, I must refer to my man Hov.) I will also say that Day 2 Part 2 went way the hell better than Day 2 Part 1.

✖ What with the Camdonians representing, I will now switch all comment-baiting towards Old Man Nicholas. Hiebradond seems to be drifting away, and I don't like it.



✖ Zeke is way more awesome than any of us.

✖ Bouncers are all secretly photographers. Where Dean at?

✖ The watercolorist equivalent to one Jason Duncan may well be this cat Walton Ford. (I may or may not have heard about him in the premier issue of Men's Vogue. Shut up.)

✖ It's been a minute since I've let something like this slip, but anyway I'm in this poetry class these days and I don't even like poetry, but the class itself is kind of amazing, and it's constantly making me think of the nature of writing, and what I think good work ought to look like. And I, today, submit that a decent poem ought to be an exercise in reduction. Stripped of any excess weight and reduced to its essential parts. If it is muscular and quick and lean then it will win in a fight. I want poets to write poetry like Schulz drew Charlie Brown.

✖ Oh, you know I copped the new Cocorosie. Sit tight, Higginblaze!

✖ What are you doing tonight? (Two PBS links on one post! Setting records today, kids.)