About Me

More and more, it feels like Iâ€™m doing a really bad impersonation of myself.

My Interests

I'd like to meet:

It's creepy, but here we are, the Pilgrims, the crackpots of our time, trying to establish our own alternate reality. To build a world out of rocks and chaos. What it's going to be, I don't know. Even after all that rushing around, where we've ended up is the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. And maybe knowing isn't the point. Where we're standing right now, in the ruins in the dark, what we build could be anything.___________________________________________________ ____________Every rock is a day Denny doesn't waste. Smooth river granÂite. Blocky dark basalt. Every rock is a little tombstone, a little monument to each day where the work most people do just evapÂorates or expires or becomes instantly outdated the moment it's done. I don't mention this stuff to the reporter, or ask him what happens to his work the moment after it goes out on the air. Airs. Is broadcast. Evaporates. Gets erased. In a world where we work on paper, where we exercise on machines, where time and effort and money passes from us with so little to show for it, Denny gluing rocks together seems normal.

My Blog

Chapter 1

If you're going to read this, don't bother. After a couple pages, you won't want to be here. So forget it. Go away. Get out while you're still in one piece. ...
Posted by on Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:33:00 GMT

Chapter 2

It's dark and starting to rain when I get to the church, and Nico's waiting for somebody to unlock the side door, hugging herself in the cold. "Hold on to...
Posted by on Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:31:00 GMT

Chapter 3

Anymore, when I go to visit my mom, I don't even pretend to be myself. Hell, I don't even pretend to know myself very well. Not anymore. &n...
Posted by on Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:30:00 GMT

Chapter 4

The moment Denny bends over, his wig falls off and lands in the mud and horse poop and about two hundred Japanese tourists giggle and crowd forward to get his shaved head on videotape. &n...
Posted by on Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:29:00 GMT

Chapter 5

Whatever lighting the photographer used was harsh and made bad shadows on the cement-block wall behind them. Just a painted wall in somebody's basement. The monkey looked tired and patch...
Posted by on Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:28:00 GMT

Chapter 6

The next time I go visit my mom I'm still Fred Hastings, her old public defender, and she keeps me yakking all afternoon. Until I tell her I'm still not married, and she says that's...
Posted by on Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:27:00 GMT

Chapter 7

After the waiter's gone, I fork up half my sirloin steak and go to cram it all in my mouth, and Denny says, "Dude." He says, "Don't do it, here." The people all around u...
Posted by on Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:26:00 GMT

Chapter 8

Eva follows me down the hallway with her pockets full of roast turkey. There's chewed-up Salisbury steak in her shoes. Her face, the powdery crushed velvet mess of her skin, is a hundred ...
Posted by on Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:25:00 GMT

Chapter 10

Where I live now, in my mom's old house, I sort through my mom's papers, her college report cards, her deeds, statements, accounts. Court transcripts. Her diary, still locked. Her entire ...
Posted by on Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:24:00 GMT

Chapter 9

It was one afternoon when our stupid little boy and his foster mother were in a shopping mall that they heard the announcement. This was summer, and they were shopping for back to school...
Posted by on Tue, 29 Nov 2005 16:24:00 GMT