tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51716374102700149862008-12-10T11:27:24.166-08:00Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-42013521647906763932008-10-22T18:53:00.000-07:002008-10-25T13:13:27.802-07:00

With the election season wrapping up, I finally will once again have time enough to devote to more interesting pursuits. 1. 50 Books A Year. I wanted to read 50 books this year, or one book a week with two weeks to spare. Week 43 is beginning to wrap up, and I've only read about 35 books so far. Either I need to pick up the pace, or start reading shorter books. 2. MacAllen Quarterly I've been

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-80015821146864411362008-07-05T12:43:00.000-07:002008-07-14T12:59:11.121-07:00

I just finished up Foundations of Literary Study, an undergraduate summer class I enrolled in at Rutgers Newark, and the first time I've been back in a classroom since graduating five years ago. The class focused on three books and accompanying criticism and literary theory. We read Frankenstein, Heart of Darkness, and Labyrinths. I wrote two papers for the class, the first a short analysis

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-69406045906762170112008-06-04T12:55:00.000-07:002008-07-14T12:57:31.231-07:00

My 2002 Honda Civic passed the 100,000 mile mark this afternoon while commuting home from Hackensack.

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-48432448430377895202007-11-09T07:28:00.000-08:002007-11-09T07:52:16.087-08:00

Growing up in the suburbs of northern New Jersey meant my adolescent social life essentially revolved around diners. Diners are great places for a cup of coffee and a few hours of doing nothing. I consistently ordered meals that came with a side order of coleslaw. For the most part, coleslaw in north jersey consists of green cabbage, red cabbage, and carrot shavings mixed with a thick dose of

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-56487232841036141542007-11-05T06:19:00.001-08:002008-07-16T09:57:48.743-07:00

Sunday afternoon was this guy's birthday, which meant for us a second trip to the famed Coney Island. My first ever excursion to the far reaches of the civilized world was back in May, and I liked it so much, we decided to make a return trip. Erik would like to think it was all about this birthday, but really, its all about the pizza. The day started off with the usual subway ride under the

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-37229402640658074012007-11-03T10:50:00.000-07:002008-03-29T20:36:45.005-07:00

I've always been the one to go around shooting pictures. As a result, I have a fairly extensive visual record of my life as far back as high school. Of course, back then digital cameras were clunky, underpowered, and ate up batteries in a matter of minutes and so every picture I took was on 35mm film and produced in glossy 4x6 inch prints. Printed photos still possess some magic quality that

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-90932629806826213002007-08-27T07:33:00.000-07:002007-08-27T07:38:29.494-07:00

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-61088436931623363602007-08-22T07:30:00.000-07:002007-08-27T07:31:43.873-07:00

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-7038032860369920422007-08-21T17:08:00.000-07:002008-07-22T10:32:36.190-07:00

Our trip to Coney Island began on a whim on a Saturday morning in early May. Mandee and I were in the middle of breakfast when we made the decision. We had for months been discussing a trip to the famed beach, an excursion we wanted to make before Coney Island was reinvented by the much needed redevelopment. I sent off a message to Erik, who agreed on the condition that we would stop for pizza.

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-9862815597977168052007-08-21T16:49:00.001-07:002007-08-21T16:49:54.342-07:00

For many years when I was much younger, I only drank Top Milk. Even today, home for holidays and family functions, I'm accused of refusing to drink anything but. I'm sure there are a number of you wondering, "WTF is Top Milk?" Being that my mother was a quasi-hippie-turned-yuppie, our house had the (mis)fortune of enjoying weekly milk delivery from a local dairy processor. The milk arrived in

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-83698260392259068862007-08-21T16:47:00.000-07:002007-08-21T16:49:16.395-07:00

For those of you who are not in the know, Ring Dings are chocolate cakes filled with white cream. They are similar to a Yodel or Frosted Hostess Cupcake. If I were to guess, I'd say the recipe for each of these delights is probably the same-- same chocolate cake, same white filling, same chocolate coating. Yet, there is something about a Ring Ding these other tasty little snacks lack, something

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-55731135810649498972007-08-21T15:52:00.000-07:002007-08-21T16:53:29.898-07:00

The first rule of fight club is that there are no rules. I learned this the hard way. Back in the elementary school days, I found myself in a number of scuffles. Mostly these were the result of a few bullies not realizing that they shouldn’t pick on people bigger than themselves. Those playground scuffles never amounted to much, largely because they were on the playground. But then there was

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-87524964379224367252007-08-21T15:51:00.000-07:002007-08-21T16:54:16.852-07:00

The last childhood birthday party I attended was for a kid named Vincent. He lived a few blocks down the street from me. Vinnie, as I believe he goes by now, had a big old house with a swimming pool. He was one of those semi-popular kids who tagged along with bullies but usually didn't make too much of a fuss unless someone more popular told him to. From time to time when I meet people and say

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-86861548554669481272007-08-21T15:50:00.000-07:002007-08-21T16:55:26.869-07:00

As far as I'm aware, I was never dropped on the head as a child. Of course, I probably wouldn't remember such a thing even if it had happened. But the other day, for some reason, I was recalling just how durable my head really is. Incident #1 Growing up, I had a tree house. It began as a simple platform between three trees, seven or eight feet off the ground. Then we added railings, and then a

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-5716866785905518272007-08-21T15:40:00.000-07:002007-08-21T16:57:39.135-07:00

I was riding the train home from Philadelphia. Of course, strictly speaking, I wasn’t really riding it home. My home was a one bedroom apartment in the south side of Philadelphia, on a block of old brownstones. Indeed, my parents’ house ceased to be my home some time ago. I can’t remember when that happened though, what it was that tipped me off to the fact that house was someplace different than

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-47161367082957400202007-08-21T14:34:00.000-07:002007-08-21T14:35:16.075-07:00

This story was included in Belting Drunk, a collection I put together as a zine my senior year of college. Carli moved into the house across the street when we were both three. We played tea party and Barbie together because in return she would watch Voltron and Transformers with me. We watched at her house, since my mother forbid commercial television. Exceptions of course, were made for

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-82319316805279156282007-08-21T14:24:00.000-07:002008-07-16T10:10:28.744-07:00

originally published in The Anthologist, the literary journal of Rutgers College "I met an old man today," she said to me. "What was his name?" I asked. "He didn't have a name. I called him Frank. We talked about sliced bread." "Why?" "He never had it before. Frank said when he was younger, either you made your own bread or you didn't have any. He makes his own bread everyday." "Isn't

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-84545729458511633862007-08-21T14:23:00.001-07:002007-08-21T14:23:28.877-07:00

originally published in The Anthologist, the literary journal of Rutgers College On Tuesday nights I have bible study class. I heard it was a good place to meet people. One Tuesday night in early October, after eating alone at the Panama Diner, and drinking alone at Murphey's pub, I found myself staring at the face of Jesus. It appeared in the foamy head of my beer, and I continued to drink. We

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-48956551606547655292007-08-21T14:18:00.000-07:002008-07-16T10:09:53.795-07:00

originally published in The Anthologist, the literary journal of Rutgers College under the title "The Women of Jackson Pierce" Holly Valentine Holly Valentine gave me a hand job in the back of the school bus when we were in the eighth grade. That was the last time she would talk to me for nine years. When I was sixteen I said good bye to my teachers and enrolled at the University of

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-72705057649231220672007-08-21T12:41:00.001-07:002007-08-21T12:41:24.866-07:00

The yuppies arrived on the first warm Saturday in May. Two came at ten, as scouts, walking up and down the block smoking Cuban cigarillos. By eleven, they trickled by, but by noon it was a torrent of Gettas, Cabrios, and restored Volvo 240’s littered with stickers reading “MV” and “LBI”. They knocked down old men carrying bread and figs bought that morning at the market. One grabbed Mamma Rosario

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-89111218161386057082007-08-21T12:32:00.001-07:002007-08-21T12:32:42.807-07:00

originally published on Sara Cohen's Wellness Blog The first time I was in straitjacket, I was only three. Or maybe four. Strictly speaking, I've only ever been placed in a straitjacket once, as far as I can remember. The house my family was living in at the time was a contemporary style with an open living room and dinning room. However, between the two rooms was a single, long stair. The

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-69786002254864706522007-08-21T12:22:00.000-07:002008-07-16T09:53:34.499-07:00

I was born and raised in Ringwood, New Jersey, a suburb 45 miles or so north of New York City. Ringwood consists largely of state forests and reservoirs, making it a rather rural place to live. When I was little, my brother and I would war against the kids up the street. We had a tree house that needed to be defended. A few years ago, the tree house collapsed under the weight of winter snow. I

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-61996347808798265822007-08-21T12:21:00.001-07:002007-08-21T12:21:52.474-07:00

Yesterday at five a.m. I had that fantasy where I think the time is really ten a.m. and I've just blown off my midmorning meeting. Only in the fantasy, it's worse, because it is also the boss's birthday and I've missed the breakfast of stale donuts and soggy bagels and melancholy singing. Everyone else is already there gathering around the boss lady like she is the damn Madonna lavishing her with

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-4409339440167394552007-08-19T20:07:00.000-07:002008-07-16T09:47:38.063-07:00

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5171637410270014986.post-88201056006893624822007-08-19T13:56:00.000-07:002007-08-21T13:57:19.152-07:00

An earlier draft of this story was included in Belting Drunk, a collection I put together as a zine my senior year of college. I since revised the story and changed the title. The former title was "The Hollywood Hussy". I once wrote a one act play entitled "Roses for Madison", unrelated to this story, but clearly where I took the title from. HSM magazine paid Nancy Goldstein two thousand

Ianhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01807173112396557445noreply@blogger.com0