Other
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The Last Book I Loved: Too Big to Miss
I used to read lots of mysteries, and for some reason I stopped. Then I heard about Sue Ann Jaffarian’s mysteries from Mystery Bookstore on Twitter, and got addicted. Her heroine is plus-size paralegal Odelia Gray, and she’s an amateur…
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Look Out New Yorkers: Black Hand has an Auto
“Maintaining the American spirit of up-to-dateness, which is said to attain its most perfect flower in New York, the Black Hand has now added the automobile to its working machinery…. Gus Marino, who has a prosperous junk business at 2045…
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The Last Book I Loved: Isaac Fitzgerald, the first half of The Night of the Gun
That’s not to say I didn’t like the second half of the book, where David Carr gets his life back on track and ends up working as a writer for the New York Times. But I’m a sucker for a…
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Jonathan Kiefer: The Last Book I Loved, What’s Not to Love?
Sometimes I like to make myself depressed by reading other writers named Jonathan who are better than me. Lately it’s been a lot of fun/shame, what with Lethem and Franzen on the scene, not to mention the immortal Swift. But…
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Pasties and Pastries
Oh, I wish I were in Austin for SXSW’s Pasties and Pastries cupcake and boobie show.
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Saturday Morning Links
Toilet-shaped plates with food presented as excrement. Sweet! Ever find yourself at a diner at three in the morning, the drunk hungries kicking your ass and your waffle/hash brown/extra bacon combo is taking forever? Make your own ice cream from…
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Zak Smith: The Last Book I Loved, Viriconium
M. John Harrison is doomed. Here is what is going to happen to him: in ten or twelve years, after the Hollywood development people have clawed past the Dunes and Narnias and Spider-Men and have begun to see the bottom…
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Post-Young: Notes on the Not-So-Fresh-Faced Author, He Blogs
To quote somebody far more incisive than me, “Once your book comes out, the weirdness begins…”
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Cobblers and Coverless Books
Doing well: shoe repair shops and, according to the Telegraph of London, used bookstores:
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Beautiful Booze Hags
In a flash that’s maybe as much prose poem as it is non-fiction (does it matter?), John Griswold injects us into a scene at the end of a man’s life. Three waitresses at the restaurant where the man ate every…