* Ryan Manning interviewed me on Thunk. Thanks, Ryan Manning.
* Nathan Logan reviewed That Tiny Insane Voluptuousness. Thanks, Nate Logan.
* I have a prose poem in the new and great-looking Salt Hill. It comes right after the Mary Gaitskill interview, which I was excited about. Maybe she'll read it? I recently read Veronica, which had its flaws, but so does my poem. I think I would have liked it more had I not just finished The Quick and the Dead by Joy Williams, which is one of the best books I've read in the past five years or so. Her sentences are so tight and perfect that Gaitskill's seemed kind of sloppy in comparison, but I think the looseness was by design (she chose to tell the story in the voice of a rather flaky, vapid narrator ... which I'm sure had some elusive purpose but kind of annoyed me ... wow I hope Mary Gaitskill doesn't read this. She is, of course, awesome.)
Surprise, surprise, Sotomayor is getting Hillary Clintoned. "Testy"! I love the NYT's very carefully veiled sexism here: she is "not shy about" and, later, "not afraid of" asking lawyers a lot of questions—not so much to keep them honest and on their toes as to "ensure that she fully understands their arguments." Read: women are shy, scared, and dense.
Applicably, Kathy just wrote in an email (about a review, not the Supreme Court, "but still"): "No press is bad press. Some press is dumb press, but still." Some press is dumb press. "Nuff said." (Allen wrote that in an email. I mean every email.)
I can never believe when people say they don't like summer because it's too hot. Probably the same crazy assholes who like shoveling snow. (Just kidding. I kind of like shoveling snow.) I like summer so much that before it even arrives, it's already half-ruined by my dread of it ending. Like basically the only part of "summer" that isn't tainted for me is the first 20 days of June that are still technically spring, because I think, "This is so great, and it's technically not even summer yet!" The summer solstice marks my inward turn toward despair and hopelessness. Trudging around, hungover and sweating and chewing on the straw of my watered-down iced coffee getting cancer.