A short while back, North Korea’s indomitable little despot, Kim Jong Un, son of my good old friend Kim Jong Il, held a press conference to tell the world that he could use a hydrogen bomb to destroy Manhattan pretty much any damn time the mood struck him. Given the disparity of nuclear weapon stocks, as well as the technology gap between the USA and the People’s Democratic Republic of Korea that would virtually assure North Korea’s quick and efficient transformation into a vast, glassy hole in the ground in the event of an atomic engagement, I pretty much ignored the threat–but what did concern me was Jong Il’s own transformation from fairly normal looking Asian dictator into–do you see it?–Sponge Bob.
Native, Militant Westsylvanian (the first last best place), laborer, gardener, and literary hobbyist (if by literary you mean "hack"). I've had a bunch of different blogs, probably four, due to a recurring compulsion to start over. This incarnation owes to a desire to dredge up the best entries of the worst little book of hand-scrawled poems I could ever dream of writing, salvageable excerpts from fiction both in progress and long-abandoned. and a smattering of whatever the hell seems to fit at any particular moment. At first blush, I was here just to focus on old, terrible verse, but I reserve the right to include...anything. Maybe everything, certainly my love of pulp novels, growing garlic, the Pittsburgh Steelers and howling at the moon--both figuratively and, on rare occasions, literally.View Archive →