Cincinnati, 1980. In late November on a Sunday morning my mother burned something she was cooking and the smoke alarm went off. And the joke was there – right there…
“People were gathered in the entryway looking at something, and when we stepped forward we saw what: a couple laying on the floor, kissing and embracing in slow motion.”
This ongoing experiment in film writing freezes a film at 10, 40, and 70 minutes, and keeps the commentary as close to those frames as possible. This week, I examine…
On most sunny summer days, Aaron Cometbus can be found leaning back in a folding chair behind a well-organized used book table on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg, scribbling in Sharpie…
My theory of the tortured artist is to be an artist, you don’t have to be tortured. But it helps. I am in graduate school. Because I have nothing better to…
When life is not the slightest bit luminescent, I read Lorrie Moore. She honors a commitment to the search for truth and morality through emotional and reachable means.
We all have reading habits. We read in bed, at the table, on the train. Perhaps you read standing up in your kitchen, waiting for your pasta water to boil.…