"Categories” or “The Grid Game” is something my family played on car trips or at home. As an adult, I have found it to be a lot of laughs at parties or writing jams. It’s also a good way to stir up creative energy. At the last writing jam at my place, Jud, Maria, Janice, Rachel, Lauren, Jason, Ajua and I played. Sharing our results inspired belly laughs as well as a-ha moments. Then we used the answers we came up with as a wordlist for free writing. So here’s the game and how you can participate now in this blog-based tourney. Three sections follow: HOW TO PLAY SCORING PLAY NOW! HOW TO PLAY Create a 4x4 grid on a piece of paper. You could do this by folding a paper into 16ths, or just draw lines. Here’s mine. You’ll notice I left a little space above and to the left, which is not a bad idea. Above each column, we'll write our categories. When I was a kid, we used categories like animals, foods, girl’s names, and colors. As an adult, I have foun
Whereof? Hereof! Zoetic Press said yes. My book's got a poetic address. I'm signing with the Zed imprint of Santa Cruz. Look at Z and me! A person asked the Dalai Lama what his most cherished moment was. The answer: "this moment." If I were a millipede, I could count on every limb a task that needs doing, a question that needs and answer, a step to take between this state and the state of published. If I were a millipede, I would walk, rippling, wherever I went. Perhaps I am one. Fuckin' A! I'm getting big-time published!
Roz Chast! I just have to say before the feature poem begins: I am backflippingly thrilled to have Roz Chast's art in my book. Besides having loved her panels for years, she's also in a book that provided early inspiration for my current project: What The Songs Look Like , illustrated lyrics of Talking Heads. See more of Roz Chast's wonderful, funny, subtle art at her website . And now... No one moves Public chess set in the Galleria with 4-foot kings and queens: I’ve never seen anybody play. You’d have to be a chess player to suggest putting one in. Maybe some assistant set it via the mall manager. I know that a queen can be moved by a pawn—but nobody plays, far as I’ve seen, as I eat frozen yogurt, listening to podcasts at three. Watching a match would seem hilarious in San Francisco’s stylishly stifled downtown daylight. I imagine someone putting lipstick on the kings or stacking the castles in a pyramid pattern after hours, after the stodgy sun h