new ways, new ways

And so we come by roundabout process to Haibun Mark III. We love you. Keep reading, America.

We no longer have any comments. This is not on purpose, but there's something weird in the new template, which I got from Blogger Templates, a portal for which can be found at the bottom of my links section...which has changed slightly, all apologies if I've left out your site or your favorite site, email me if you want to suggest something or complain about something or say something to me. Say something/anything to me.

We have further news. TFM has been massively repurposed. Ch-ch-check it out, because more Allred and Miccio madness needs to be absorbed into your skin like aloe, guvnor.

Flattered that two of my pieces for PopMatters made it into their five-year celebration feature. Pissed off that only two of my pieces made it into their five-year celebration. Lord it ain't easy being me.

Quickly, about the World Series: Yay. Either team is all good with me, I don't hate Tony LaRussa because he's a PETA guy and the only vegetarian manager to win a World Series, or exist. And I was watching the 1986 WS in the basement of the Education School Library at Harvard with my long-suffering Rhode Islander roommate Jay F., I'll never forget that night. So yeah, I just hope it's one hell of a series.

Oh, and eff a Beltran and a Biggio, they signed this piece of shit. (NB: do not click on link if you are allergic to contributing to the incumbent president's official website hit count. Still, though, it's funny to see how far the Bushies will go up their own butts; does anybody really base their voting decision on what Kerri Strug and Roger Staubach and Karl Malone think? But still: Ernie Banks, shame on a brother when he's kneeling. Also, Alex Rodriguez gave the maximum to the GWB campaign. Well, shut my mouth and call me Slappy. Or just maybe say "Republicans buy sneakers too."

And we love the rain that pelts us as we try valiantly to find all the CDs in our trunk so we can review them before the end of the year, and we love the sting of early morning soccer games in October (especially when our sons are on a two-game two-goal career-peak-stretch) and we love rocking out to punk-pop with our daughters and we love watching "Lost" and "Desperate Housewives" with our wives and we love being in touch with old acquaintances with whom we should have been best friends. (AMD you know I'm looking your way.) We love, we live, we look, we laugh, we talk about ourselves in the third person, we miss our fantasy basketball drafts to go knock on doors for Kerry/Edwards with the League of Conservation Voters, we write, we breathe. We move on for the evening like shadows.

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