Category Archives: Fiction

A pilfered posting notion

With little of the expected shame and embarrassment befitting the act, I have stolen the idea for this post from Carson Cistulli, whose humdinger of a website The New Enthusiast has been my (admittedly belated) obsession this week.

Cistulli turns out to be a fascinating individual a mere three months my junior. I became familiar with him due to my similarly recent fixation on a Sabremetric baseball site called Fangraphs dat com, a vision of interesting baseball statistical minutia catalyzed with a thoroughly human perspective, much due to Cistulli’s regular influence. He creates a NERD score for each game, an original metric deciding which game in the entire league is the most interesting based on his delightfully presumptuous and “infallible” statistical valuation. Even in the potentially sparse territory of baseball analysis, Cistulli manages an elegance and humor which is thoroughly delightful. “No little faddling” indeed.

The post is great, and for some reason the amount of spam I’ve received lately has absolutely catapulted. I would be loathe to dispassionately jettison these epigrams of the spam-bot spiders into the void without fastidiously cataloging them here for your pleasure, dearest reader (read: myself)! So below in all their glory are some actual spam comments I’ve gotten in the last week, accompanied by my falsified subconscious reactions:

keep sharing such ideas in the future as well. this was actually what i was looking for, and i am glad to come here! Continue reading


Filed under Baseball, Being Human, Fiction

Suggestion: The South

This went up on the USS Rock N Roll blog today:

My friends Tim and Shad and I get together and sometimes we do timed writes: set a timer for ten minutes and just write on an agreed upon topic. This idea is simple enough, but would never have occurred to me. We took a workshop with Tami Sagher, who explained the exercise as outlined in the excellent Natalie Goldberg book Writing Down the Bones.

What follows my (now edited) short story inspired by the suggestion, “The South.”


The swamp moss hung languorously from the trees, moisture dangling in the air like ripe fruit. Little moved down by the old porch swing and the breeze did not lift the shimmer of heat.

An old man sat on a stump, eating a peach, contemplating the end of the world. While there was no outward indication this was imminent, he spent a good amount of time chewing on the prospect. Continue reading

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Filed under Fiction