All Roger Moore wants is a drink. He’s had a rough couple of days. He’s Bond—James Bond—but nobody seems to believe him. He’s not in the mood for a martini, doesn’t care to micromanage the
I’m to blame for every fake suicide this week. If anyone knocks at the door I shout the addresses of shut-ins until I hear footsteps. If the knocking continues I take my gun and start shooting through the walls.
All I wanted was the haze of a worn gown / of sleep after the scrape of that / honey-sipped night.
Hopefully, I’ve ingested enough synthetic flavor to stop my heart real early. Or to maintain tinnitus for the length of a harassing phone call. If not, the only responsibility of the adult is to be their own Kevorkian.
All summer the future had been coming for us like a thunderstorm at which turkeys look up and drown in the rain.
He was like, "Everyone knows what racoons like to do."
What an asshole.
I had runoff all over. I hadn’t escaped the heartland.
Then the world boned its youth one worse. Even if you weren’t participating, they made not giving a fuck popular.
I do not remember this, cannot call up the image.
This has to stop— / you're a year dead. I shatter the mirror // with a glare, pace the hall carpet, / but others arrive by dawn, agitated // by thuribles, syllables scattered from / pulpits, daughters buttoned into pastel.
Lydia! What the heck is the hold up? How long does it take to throw a rope over a branch?
We are launching a new project, HOBART HANDBOOKS, the first project of which is our Handbook on Baseball, collecting some of our favorite pieces from our last thirteen years of online baseball
In 2011, while addicted to heroin, I briefly delivered pizza for Zeppe's, a chain restaurant in rural Northeast Ohio.
We are launching a new project, HOBART HANDBOOKS, the first project of which is our Handbook on Baseball, collecting some of our favorite pieces from our last thirteen years of online baseball
On the night during which the events of this essay took place—August 8th, 2003—the San Francisco Giants beat the Philadelphia Phillies 9-1. Barry Bonds hit a home run, yes, his 648th...
We are launching a new project, HOBART HANDBOOKS, the first project of which is our Handbook on Baseball, collecting some of our favorite pieces from our last thirteen years of online baseball
Well, you see the horns there. They're a good size, I think. And so me, I ask about them, I say, You got horns?
I began reading a PDF of Cult of Loretta, but stopped a few pages in. I’d already, by instinct, picked up the pen beside me several times. There were sentences to underline, pages to dog-ear. What
fuck me here on this scabrous mountain while we all watch each other among sacred olives fuck away desire.
The story goes that Mario is Luigi’s brother. Nearly all we know about him is that he is a brother.
Rebecca and I read Atul Gawande's Being Mortal and talked about it.
I heard about what happened last week.
Oh yeah, that was just—
It wasn't right. I'm really sorry about that.
His family was there. My family was there. My bouquet was made of flies.
Sometimes we appreciate things a lot later in life than we should.
