It's lame that I have an index of Index Pages
June 1997. The original homestead.
December 97. The Agnostic Gospels. It glows. Like Rudolph.
March 98. Murder in the Cathedral. The first Tripod site.
April 98. How To Disappear Completely And Never Be Found.
May 98. How much more black could it be? And the answer is none,
none more black.
May 98, Part deux. And you never knew how many subplots you left
up there, Plaster Man.
Pages containing something more than bitter rantings
on the intrinsic worth of modern American culture. Which is, incidentally,
a very great worth, and if you don't believe me, read The Crying
of Lot 49 and if you still don't believe me then lover boy, oh
lover boy, I simply say, ba-a-by...
The Meaning of Life: officially titled "Poems and Other Necessities".
You can read works by
And many, many more...
Music: Go buy "The Ponzi Scheme" by Firewater.
Radiohead: It's not a band, it's a way of life.
- This page is called
Everybody's got their own angel and this is about mine.
And it is. Because my friends are the most wonderful and amazing people
ever to be alive.
Things I should not have put on the web because
frankly, I think people who put their own work on the web are lame.
Melpomene is the Muse of tragedy in Greek mythology. This poem
is called "How To Disappear Completely and Never Be Found Again." Note
a trend, will you. Duly noted.
is a story I wrote in London last summer. Joyce Carol Oates, who was
my creative writing teacher, wrote on the bottom of it that my
writing was brilliant, virtually flawless. I would never have said
that except I'm totally shitfaced. Typically, her saying that sent me
into a hyperdepressive panic in which I decided that I would never
again write anything even remotely decent and had hit my creative