Spot the typo in the picture and then this blog post.

If you've come by the office you've probably seen us puttering around and mumbling. Its a difficult time to be getting things in order. For me, things seem a lot harder this semester. Maybe I've been fucked by Hunter and gotten scabies. Something itches. I've been unable to really focus on anything. Instead of reading Faulkner for class, I've been reading Auster. Instead of reading the Cloud Corporation (Tim Donnelly) for Rumpus, I finished Bluets by Maggie Nelson. Instead of my own proofreading I've been finding typos in books.

This is not really a convenient time for me to be slacking off, but I've known nothing else in this brief life. As Reuben (former managing editor) would say- I need that "flame under my ass." I wrote today. I think it would be fair to say that some of the people in the office consider themselves writers, some don't, and some will not admit it until they're on their deathbed. I'm not really hung up on labels because I've got some pretty rad friends who say: "LET'S DO A PROMPT" and then its either its awesome or it sucks. We try not judge. If we do- we get drunk and talk about it later. A man's relationship with a deer. Awkward. Not one of my better freewrites.

So we've been trying to come up with contest ideas. There will be an editor's meeting on Friday and we'll all blow our load and see what the hell comes of the mind retention. I thought about something to do with 'zines. I haven't narrowed in, but I'm always inspired by the idea of self-publishing. (No need to wait until you have gray hair for "your" issue of the OTR comes out- let's get RUHL.) I used to love writing 'zines when I worked at the library in periodicals. So many funny things happened and I had plenty of time to write while looking like I was doing something official. (Shut up Consumer Reports Dude, I'm writing my "thanks.") Photocopying and pasting and designing and fine-lining can be a real source of creative expulsion when you like to merge the C.A. Anyway: I'll be trying to think of more things that could win you $50 to The Strand. My "real" job is to get everyone in a room and go "okay, yes or no" and then tell them yes or no. And then disagree. And then agree. Then go into some kind of existentialist fugue. Then I wait for things to print and am surprised because I've already forgotten half the material. I want a contest that brings in some WOW.
Great things get published. Terrible things get published. Great things get rejected. Terrible things get shredded or burned.

This Saturday at Poet's House (founded by Stanley Kunitz… you know… the one who tells it like it is. Check your anthology or wiki if you're curious. Worth it, of course) Nick Flynn and Marie Howe are reading. Beg and tell the "palms out" you're CUNY if they poke you for $7 or just give it to them in quarters because you fucking love writing. The Poets House is at 10 River Terrace. (

As I was griping about: this semester has kind of been like when you've drank too much and are stuck on the 6 train and "train trafficked" to a halt before Parkchester. Its usually been a painful 8-13 hours of excitement & stupid shit and the relief of home seems like five stops & a car ride on the Hutch away.

Oh. Another thing. Haters wanna hate… but who the fuck cares. Shut up. Just jerk off and watch some Cops from the mid-nineties if things get ridiculous. Sit on the red couch and drink some coffee and write your paper and call your mother and refill your metro card and do something corny that makes you feel better after all that wocka wocka. I'll try and balance better, but I really love it when people come by and yell at me (just kidding bitch from last year, I will shred you. You knock and you be polite or the lobster takes out the big claw and tells you to STFU before going into a corner and hyperventilating and thinking: I don't get paid for this shit!)

Long winded, three thousand piece minded, third eye binded (bound) and sky high eyebrows with dust mites,

P.S. We don't have a blog editor. Obviously. If you want to write for us or correct all my stupid mistakes (I only like doing that for others, duh) - then stop by Thomas Hunter 212.