Welcome to the N.L. Centralish! I will be vested as Commissioner of this year’s inaugural season. I think 80% of us are nubes at the fantasy baseball system so Krammes and Jerrod should be patient. Also, Krammes and Kate should not feel ostracized because they’re the only people not related to a Bryson… (YET!) Also, some house keeping orders, and this is probably the first of several charges that needs issued by myself in my Commissioner capacity. So: If Krammes is struck by sniper fire or succumbs to Afghan protests and is incapacitated in any way to the point that he cannot play fantasy MLB, I move that he needs to establish a successor who can take over and run his team. Sort of like Sharon did with Tzipi Livni when he bailed out of the newly established Kadima party because of a “coma.”
So, sniper fire and unholy protests be damned, baseball goes on, sounds good to me. I’m not sure how to start a draft but it probably entails selecting a date and time and hitting a button that says something like “start draft” or something like that. Evan’s mascot is outlawed in 43 1/2 states for sure, it not only makes kids cry it made me cry. So, who’s who in this game? We know DB, Krammes, Andy, Ally, Me, Master Batters I’m guessing Tony and the rest I’m up in the air on. Also, I’m way pissed that I can’t access this from work due to it being blocked on the basis of being considered a “Game”, stupid!
Okay guys (and ladies), I’ve gone over the rules and we can either do this live draft style and draft our rosters by taking turns which will require all of us to be online at the same time…or we can do a list draft whereby we rank our players. I’ve got us down for live draft right now just so we don’t get locked into a set. But can change it back to list draft by the Authority of the Commissioner. (See what I did there? I combined fantasy baseball with His Dark Materials. I prefer to be called the Authority actually from now on.) Anyway, everyone should be doing their pre-rankings as this will ensure they get who they want or at least somewhat of their desired roster.
Lets do a live draft. Jerrod, I too am blocked from this site at work. I found a work around though. I was able to navigate to the site only if I clicked the original invite link AJ sent to my email. Anyhow, I am 9.5 hours ahead of you all, so if you set the draft for like 10 or 11 EST than I should be able to participate. My first three picks if I had to draft right now: 1. Chris Sabo 2. Jonah Keri 3. Marty Brenneman
I like the idea of coordinating a live draft for a Patriot doing hard work in the high desert of Afghanistan, but I just don’t think it’s feasible. One, I’m pretty sure Todd is leaching internet from a bar 4 blocks away, plus he’s notoriously difficult to schedule with from years of habit-forming evasive tactics with collection bureaus. Two: Evan, well, you’ve all seen his team name and mascot, enough said. Next, Tayler and I don’t have internet at our house- you’re Iranian connection is better than our non-existent one. Jerrod and Ally would likely do it because they’re the most responsible; and Ally has that unflagging politeness possessed by all Canadians (I think she thought this was a curling league!). I actually think a list could be pretty fun. It all come down to where you rank your players: If I put Votto at #1 and you put him at #6(you wouldn’t right?) then I snatch him up. It’s all based on where you rank them, and I think that’s a bit of strategy right there. Naturally with Todd, Tayler, and Evan farting around, Kemp will be divided in more ways than Voldemort’s soul and become a toss-up on who actually gets him. So, I’m keeping the Live Draft up for now because List Draft is scheduled for March 2d and that’s not enough time for us nubes to rank our players. Next: I would like to propose an edict straight from the Authority: NO AMERICAN LEAGUE PLAYERS ARE ALLOWED to be drafted in the N.C. Centralish League. Hit (X) next to their name and get them out of here. The Authority will take written arguments as to why they should be included as is required by Due Process under the 5th and 14th Amendment.
Who is the auteur? The Hollywood Reporter revealed that two members of the spot’s Portland Oregon-based ad agency had been Obama volunteers in 2008 although it is unclear what input, in any, they had in the concept. The ad itself was directed by 36-year-old David Gordon Green, the earnest oddball regionalist (in films like All the Real Girls) turned maker of stoner action comedies (most recently Your Highness). The only personal touch would seem to be Green’s goofy sanctimoniousness and lyrical feel for derelict rural landscapes, although it’s a bit uncanny that his first movie, the 2000 indie production George Washington would have as its hero a silent, self-contained black kid with a justified sense of destiny, nicknamed for the first president of the United States. “Halftime in America” seems to be one of these presents that America gave to itself.
Alright. Having established that the Bros. Dickman also had a hand in scripting “Halftime in America,” mind truly madly blown to read that David Gordon Green directed the spot. I enjoy how Hoberman calls Green—back-handedly?—an auteur. Is Hoberman’s book out yet? The one that expands on an essay in Artforum? Readers—I am shrivelling before you. My brain. My fingers. Etc.
I should list the things I felt this evening while looking at the dog:
the unbearable lightness of being
stoic, stiff-upper-lipped, because of the articles on the BBC in my lap
vegetarian—it’s um an upper-class feeling; the lower middle-class can experience it, too
shock at the misery that comes upon me like a coat, with the simplest memory, misery towards agony, it can make you stop walking and say things aloud; yesterday I said, “I can’t get this sleep right!”
Helsinki, also a book on my table, on loan
fury: in critique today, Pavel noted that my pieces have similarities, or are extensions of each other; in that, I know my aesthetic is consistent: I said, “I have one mode, really, and I’m always mining the same vein,” e.g., “the exilic consciousness” (also from the BBC articles): that I was stuck
run-down from running, but I do run quickly, and a lot
Aunt Heather said the same thing about watching Cooper get run over by the school bus this morning: perfect way to start the work day. Is the reply thread not the place for this?
Cooper was a three-legged dog that recovered spendidly from his first traumatic accident, although he was forever digging holes in the yard, a hole-digging compulsion, an odd way of recovering for a dog that had to take special care to dig at all. When airplanes flew over-head he chased them across the sky. This is a mighty blow to the Ohio/Indiana borderscape.
I wrote something long that was graciously (indulgently?) published by my editors at BWDR a week or two ago. Here’s the most pertinent information, supplied by A.J.:
Also, yes, Comcast does have a monopoly because there is no competition and this lack of competition is actually a violation of trusts/monopoly laws. But it cannot be proven! This has stalled almost all litigation in that regard.
Shades of What We Talk About When We Talk About Love. In a later email, A.J. described me thus: “[I] felt like Evan was being slightly less honorable than Bryson’s are supposed to act. It struck the wrong chord with me. It seemed too soon.” On his business cards, A.J. needs to flash a little “PKA Jiminy Cricket,” small font. A great deal of the essay was written, in fact, by A.J. and Jeremy. It annoys them no end to be duped into contributing, which Jeremy must feel particularly stingingly, as I’ve not been in contact with him (save for a Facebook birthday notice) in a month or two although the channel between A.J. and himself seems free and clear. Is this because I haven’t sent you a book-box yet? But why should I? You have a Kindle! And I still have student loan debt!
Where did I get the title? I named it after a passage in The Crying of Lot 49. Other things happen in the essay—there happens, for instance, a brief glimpse into how one should black out during a party (try Goldschläger). What else? My exchange with n+1 magazine. I include the requisite notation of bowel movements. M83 gets his praise in the second paragraph or so.
What am I doing right now? I am fully clothed—plaid—jeans—picking nail polish off my thumb and wondering if I should make an egg burrito to snack on.
Does anyone else read Kyle Smith's movie reviews at the Post?
And if you do, do you find yourself having intimate conversations with him? “Why the spleen? Where did you do undergrad? Did you go to many house parties? Are you a jeans or khakis guy? What is your relationship to your mother? Are you banking on a position under Emily Witt at the Observer? Do you like cats, at all? What is your favorite book? Your favorite entrée at Fazoli’s? Least favorite restaurant? Least favorite writer—living, then dead. How tiny is your apartment—and are you embarrassed to take women/men back to it? Do you sleep under the sheets? What’s the bar scene like on your part of the island? Do you like to dance? But do you like dance music? Is it a race against deadlines, always and only? Or is it the imperative (imaginary) to have something to say about everything and in the worst way possible? Left-handed or right-handed? One long stroke or several short sharp soundless fappy ones? Can you cook? Can you make it to meetings on time? Do you have to go to meetings? What’s it like, everything—what is everything like?” The flack he gets in the comments is fairly astonishing. Someone told him not to “get all UTNE reader” on The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, although that would be stylistically self-limiting because isn’t the point of UTNE to print articles from other journals? Maybe you know Kyle Smith personally and can enlighten me. Drop me a line!
I had another stress dream about travel last night. Earlier last week, this dream absorbed some of your destination plans and formed the backbone to a short story that I have yet to complete. (My thesis isn’t due until next March, so I’ll sit on it until it’s certain to be bled of any nourishment.) You figured in the dream like this: You went to Munich. You met a lovely a girl. You stayed in the center of the city. On the fourth day you walked over the balcony to your death. Your shoeless body was recovered among air conditioning units tucked beside umbrellas of the Marienplatz.
I woke up in Nashville, shaking, sick to my stomach, slightly amused. In the dream—it was a long dream, full of big symbols and the intimate macabre—your mother showed me a notice you had appended to your bag. For the life of me, I cannot remember what you’d written. A.J. told me on Thursday that you met a Canadian on the airplane; that you’d be in the city for two weeks; that you have rendezvous arranged, assignations, and that thanks to the tanked Euro, you’ve put yourself up in a four-star hotel. A.J. tells me (and the refrain “A.J. tells me” should strike you as petulantly as I mean for it to) you refuse, not necessarily on principle, to speak a lick of German your entire stay; that you’ve been pointing to the menu, to items in shoppes, to locations on maps and nodding vigorously. Because you threw yourself off a balcony in my dreams, I’m feeling especially precious about your self-conscious use of Americanese. How did you ever advance in Chinese?
On my fifth day in Nashville I broke up with Cody and drove home, thus precipitating a series of sleepless nights, whereby I roll around in bed deeply sighing, breathless, swaddled in shame’s black mucous, like tar, and guilt’s carbonizing nothingness—a card table, its collapsible legs melted akimbo by house-fire. These ongoing purgatorial sensations are a problem I’ve remedied for the last six days by drinking a beer before settling in. Then I creep back downstairs to absorb either painkiller PMs or allergy tablets—all off-brand, and possibly placebo. Dad has made his usual holiday brew but it doesn’t work. The brandy slush gives me a stomach ache. It’s too sweet and too weak. The dream I had last night involved driving like a maniac through Jackson, TN, past its blue power stations and chrome factories, tracing its cracked red macadam beside four other lanes of traffic outpacing me. I was on my way to a conference for school, and not, as was the case those many times before, on my way to Holly Springs. I found the right hotel—and its fixtures and lighting and carpeting had been stripped from the Ancilla College trip I made as a senior, the miserable writer’s retreat at their nunnery. “Ancilla” the Latin for “slave girl.” The academic conference had been postponed without my knowing. I had three days to myself. I woke up rather than spend three days in a no-place Southern city constructed from my no-place Northern pain.
Brutality: A.J. and I read your life the way weather men look at barometers, or at least the way enthusiasts stare at windsocks, delighted. Is it true you’ve never told a girl you love her? We circulate this nugget among all our friends, as though its inexplicability were part of the key to proofing other enigmas. “Twenty-five years old, and he’s never said so, not even drunk!” You know how I feel about Miami University girls—they would put up with zero declarations; they would value freakish apartness. I remember serving tables of sorority girls, despondent flumes, some crying over fraternity boys in the next room, testosterone matchsticks, both parties reeking of spirits and leaving their seats to heave in the café’s small bathroom.
From Hardwick’s Sleepless Nights: “J. suffered in his loves from seizures of optimism, a blighting frenzy quite unknown to me. A meeting, an attraction, aroused in him a rich, agitated possessiveness. He rushed into the future with the first glance, swept along by a need for connection that extended the moment before it had begun. He was one of those who look into new eyes and say: Now I am going to be happy.” The person is true to me, maybe was true of me, several years ago, and recently I found him again, inside me, as bitter and reluctant as ever. And as stupid. Heedless, plucky, naive. When A.J. went through the wringer in Geneva he emailed me constantly, an unfolding treatise on failure and love. His recent post completely neglects this aspect of his time abroad. In fact, A.J.’s writing about Switzerland is luminously haunted by his break-up. His stories are like those glowing collodion negatives that receive the ghosts of soldiers, impressed by their sharp sneers and windless howls. I was perpetually single then, in perpetual decline—everything I knew I had learned by weeping over books. In mid-September and at great financial cost, he called to scream at me, to sound his great agony in these mindless sharp shrieks, curses bounding from satellites to cross the Atlantic and to cross again. But he came home and married the girl.
From Heti’s How Should a Person Be?: “One night at one of our parties, I went into the bathroom with my stomach aching. I sat on the toilet and waited for the massive shit I knew was coming, while friends and strangers sat around the living room, outside the door, talking and drinking. Sitting there, I recalled a dream from the night before, in which I was taking pills that made me shit a lot. In my dream, I decided I would write what I thought about as I shat—since I was now spending all my time shitting. But I could not shit, sitting there at the party. I hated the thought that when I opened the door, I would reveal to everyone the shittiness that was mine. I stood and buttoned my jeans and glanced down into the empty bowl, then left the bathroom and went to get a drink.” She divorces her husband and meets the greatest friend of her life just down the page from all this shit. I tracked the apex in recline, as most of my life’s feats were accomplished after a resolving shit, something coiled and massive, unusually green and not at all dense. Do you remember when Adam left the race against Centerville to sit in a port-a-john? He didn’t finish last, only just. I’m reminded, too—A.J. at a party three years ago, standing outside the bathroom door which was in the dining room of our friend’s apartment. When young ladies came out he’d say, “Oh, it just got raw in there!” And the ladies would burn with embarrassment, fending off his ridiculous exclamation. “All I did was pee!” As far as party decorum allows, I rate this as sensationally crass and inspired. I probably puked black Jäger in the same toilet, later, having drank it from champagne stems most of the night.