Monthly Archives: July 2015

Performance Review.

Bosslady:  Have a seat.
Me:  Thanks.  Jesus…you look great.
Bosslady: Thank you.  But that is extremely inappropriate.
Me:  No seriously.  My God: you really are attractive.
Bosslady:  Even more inappropriate, and you are not getting a raise, so you can stop.
Me:  Fair enough.  You’ve got shit in your teeth.
Bosslady:  As you know, we asked you to comment on and annotate a selection of our students’ papers.
Me:  Yes ma’am.
Bosslady:  In last week’s summary you compared our students’ collective writing ability to that of monkeys.
Me:  Well, not exactly.
Bosslady:  And I quote: “Your students’ dearth of writing ability yields worse than results than what would likely happen if you could convince the masturbating simians down at the zoo to let go of their weird little wangs and bang on a keyboard for a few minutes.”
Me: Yes, that sounds like a much more specific summary of what you underpaid me to read last week.
Bosslady: I’ve been reading along as you’ve made your annotations for today.
Me: You can do that?
Bosslady:  Bet your ass.
Me:  Shit.
Bosslady: Indeed.  Again, I quote: “The student has achieved nothing by this writing except the arousal of deep contempt in the heart of any poor soul unfortunate enough to set eyes on this turd of an essay.”
Me:  What remarkable prose.  Damn I’m good.  Too harsh, though, is what you’re saying here?
Bosslady: [flipping pages] As commentary on this paper, you opted out of actual words and simply used the poop emoji.
Me: Well, if the poo fits, which, in this case, if you’re honest, you simply have to admit that it does.  Like a glove.  A big shitty glove.  Made of shit.  Like the essay itself.  My commentary was perfect.
Bosslady: [flipping pages] Ah…here we go: “This student has a very bright and promising future in the composition of ransom notes.”
Me:  Did you see that “essay?”  Absolute pablum.
Bosslady: [flipping pages perniciously] “One gets the impression that this poor student is laboring away under the unfortunate misconception that he or she will be charged allowance money for each punctuation mark used and has thus decided against using any of it.  At all.  Whatsoever.”
Me:  That was my honest opinion.
Bosslady:  These are 7-year-old children, Mr. Gallaway.
Me:  Don’t try to make excuses for them, Bosslady.  I had the 5-paragraph essay dialed by the time I was 6.  But okay…maybe I was a little harsh.  But these were before lunch.  Some pretty ghastly things were going on with my physiology, blood-sugar-wise, so I may have been a tad harsh.
Bosslady:  Here.  “This three-sentence abortion of an essay is a most rancid example of the defects and shortcomings presently plaguing the entire educational system of the United States and its evidently dismally illiterate youth.”
Me:  Again, in fairness, pre-lunch.
Bosslady: [picking up a paper she had evidently already set aside for special attention]  On this paper, which, granted, seems to be just three unpunctuated sentences, you actually wrote, in writing, the following commentary: “Much like the student who wrote it, this essay is completely underdeveloped and has yet to even have its first period.”
Me:  That is absolute genius.  Do you know what you’re paying me?  And I’m giving you that?  My god, woman, you must be out of your tree.
Bosslady: And you, sir, are out of a job.
Me:  You smell like butter.  Like, all the time.  Everybody talks about it.  You smell exactly like stale movie popcorn butter.
Bosslady:  Get out.
Me:  And you still got shit in your teeth.  Looks like spinach.  Probably from that salad you were grazing on at lunch.
Bosslady: Get out.
Detention Notice


If you want something done, hire good people to do it.
Prince is being a dick again, pulling all of his music from Spotify and other services.
Trent Reznor is working on a goddamn rock opera with “Fight Club” as the libretto.
I’m feeling better about my time in the writer’s room this week, but am growing weary of having to perpetually fight for it.  Writing books is not something that is done in 15-minute increments.  It is not something that you can do for an hour.  Well, maybe you can, but I can’t.  Uninterupted periods of 4-5 hours are the realistic minimum.  These things need to be thought of in periods of days (and nights), weeks, and months.
That star most immediate in our sky is merciless.
The second most common toast I have made this summer is “to a spiderless life in a spiderless world.”  Perhaps you have heard me mention that I hate – not fear, but hate – spiders.  Sick Judo

Some Reader Mail.

I am just over two (2) years behind in responding to my reader mail, and today seemed like a reasonable enough day to delve into the pile, so here goes.
This first letter is from Guadalupe, whom, in addition to supplying the mandatory picture:
also writes, “Who are your top ten favorite fictional characters?”
Oh, hells bells, Guadalupe…you mean other than myself?  Not that I’ve ever bothered to think about it, but now that I do, I guess no one, really.
We kid, of course, Guadalupe.
Okay, off the top of my head (my shrinks are going to go apeshit over this), in no particular order (except for the first two):
10. Kurtz
That’s it.  Do with it what you will.
All right…back to it.


Kind of a blah day, if I’m honest.  Best of intentions, early start, decent breakfast, all that, but there is this seemingly unending, ever-growing stack of shit on my desk that taunts me, dares me to deal with it, and all of it, every bit of it, is stupid and pointless.
I could really use an assistant.
Anyway, the word of the day is
  1. 1.
    (of an event) be a sign or warning that (something, typically something bad) will happen.
    “the outcome of the game presaged the coming year”
    a sign or warning that something, typically something bad, will happen; an omen or portent.
    “the fever was a somber presage of his final illness”
    • archaic
      a feeling of presentiment or foreboding.
      “he had a strong presage that he had only a very short time to live”
      Nuke Spiders

Take Down.

Come with me, little one.
Take my hand.  I have you.
As I always have.
You’re trembling.  Don’t be afraid:
One’s eyes adjust to the Darkness.
Trust me: you are protected
by the only thing here
there is to fear.
Just don’t let go.
And welcome home.

Travel Day.

On the road today.  Research and whatnot.  So I shall leave you with this word of the day:


noun (derogatory)

  1. a person of obscure origin who has gained wealth, influence, or celebrity.
    “the political inexperience of a parvenu”



Day One of the new writer’s room.  Three of what will likely be the most important books in contemporary American lit to write, and just over 40 non-book projects howling like addicts for attention.  So, natch, the first thing I do is leave to go do something else and then bitch about it.
 I am not supposed to live in this place, and it’s really quite absurd to expect me to artfully express myself in this climate.
In the place where I’m supposed to live, it rains all the time, but most heavily at night.  Violently stormy, wrath-of-God type rain.  And in the place where I’m supposed to live, those nights are impossibly long and wonderful.  But in the place where I’m supposed to live, when the dawn comes and the rain alleviates a bit, the sky is full of blimps and hot air balloons and all manner of oddly shaped dirigibles.
Unfortunately, I don’t live in the place where I’m supposed to live, so it’s a very big deal when there is any rain at all ever, and an even bigger deal when there are blimps.  I got to see the launch of the Goodyear Blimp up close and personal this morning.  It was noisy and intense and wonderful.  There were several other people in attendance to observe the launch, and all of them, every last one of them, had their phones or some kind of camera device out, busily and often fussily filming the rather colossal goings-on.  This happens everywhere now, and I find it deeply disturbing.

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