Over at arts blog Big Other, they're gathering together a reading group for Flann O'Brien's great comic masterpiece At Swim-Two-Birds, to be consumed at an approachable-yet-respectable clip of 100 pages/week. See AD Jameson's post about reading guides for the complex-ish modernist book. But don't be scared! To fully enjoy O'Brien, you really needn't be equipped with anything more than a good sense of humor and a love for language. I highly encourage people to read along, or at least check in from time to time to listen in during the ensuing book banter.

There are so many "famous last words" that the pressure is really up to have yours be something really good. You have no excuse, right? I mean, sure, not all of us will be lucky enough to go quietly into that good night, surrounded by loved ones, etc. etc. etc. But the chances are good enough that it just makes sense to start thinking about it now.

So I was thinking about it, and a nightmare scenario occurred to me. So there you are, surrounded by your family, about to meet your maker, and you sense that death is near, you're sure of it, so you open up your mouth and summon with your last remaining breath those few words you'd been repeating since you were in your 20s, sure to make an impact. You say your piece. And then... And then nothing.

Turns out, you have, like, hours left. But you've already uttered what you obviously hope to be remembered by. Everyone is looking at you, and then looking at one another, and instead of the wailing, emotional catharsis that was supposed to follow your final heartbeat there's a big, long, terrifyingly awkward silence. Just mortifying.

Anyway, what are the best last words you've heard?

A friendly reminder:

The Nervous Breakdown's Literary Experience, NYC will soon be bloomin'!

Mark your calendars now for Friday, March 26th for readings from your favorite TNB writers, centered around the theme: GROWING PAINS!!

The details:

Ladies and gentlemen, it's official.

The Nervous Breakdown's Literary Experience will be taking place at The Echo on Saturday, April 10th, 2010.  Celebrating National Poetry Month.

Many thanks to our friends at Stories Bookstore in Echo Park for their help in making it all congeal.

The details:

Hold onto your hats, it's time for some TNB served up in a Rocky Mountain oyster stew.  That's right, TNB Literary Experience (TNBLE) is coming April 8th to downtown Denver, Colorado.

TNB readers include award-winning author Alexander Chee (The Queen of the Night / Edinburgh), Tom Hansen (American Junkie), Gina Frangello (Slut Lullabies / My Sister’s Continent), Aaron Dietz, Megan DiLullo, Erika Rae, Ben Loory, and poet Erica Dawson. Denver’s own Col. Hector Bravado from DenverSixShooter.com will emcee.

The Association of Writers and Writing Programs (AWP) Conference will be in town the same week, so go there for the theory of semiotic post-pre-modern ism-ologies, and when you need a break from all that, come to TNBLE to cheer us in our genetic experiments with gun-toting chicks and Mork from Ork eggs.

Doors open at 6pm; Program begins at 7pm. Live music from Hideous Men, Iuengliss and Ryat will follow at 9pm. Happy Hour goes from 4-7, $1 PBR, $2 wells and domestics. No cover; $5 suggested donation. Meadowlark / 2701 Larimer St. / Denver, CO 80205, (303) 293-0251. For more information please contact Erika Rae – erae@thenervousbreakdown.com.

Don't forget yer spurs.

Congrats are in order for our very own Jonathan Evison, whose second novel, West of Here, just got a great mention in The Huffington Post as a "big book of the future," sure to generate buzz at Book Expo in May, and beyond.

West of Here publishes in September, and already people are talking.

Very exciting!  And surely a sign of great things to come.

Three cheers for the hardest working writer in show business.

-BL

I went down to the local pool today to take out a membership. Fifty bucks for the signup and another twenty four for every following fortnight isn't too bad, especially when you consider that I'll make that back in locker hire in the first thirty-six days if I go every single day. Once again, the YMCA have proven themselves to be nothing but a bunch of chumps.

I'm not actually interested in the pool, the fitness classes (if I want to go cruising for soccer moms, I'm told that the richest pickings will be at the Eclipse premiere), or the waterslide (OK. I am slightly interested in the waterslide). What I'm after is their sweet, sweet sauna facilities.

Wake up early go to barbershop for haircut.

Barbershop is soon to close, I am informed.

Going out of business.

(Recession = long hair back in style?)

Dear Corey Haim,

Goddamnit.

38, man? 38?

Fuck.

I didn't see Back to the Future until I was about 17 (whenever the trilogy first came out on DVD). I didn't see Teen Wolf until about two years after that. The whole Michael J. Fox thing? I mean, I'd seen him in stuff, but I missed out on the whole formative-era work during the years it really counted. I didn't really need it. My teen supernatural horror base was covered, and covered completely, by The Lost Boys. It ranks up there with The Goonies and Gremlins as the very best horror flicks of my youth (to be later followed up by Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Idle Hands, The Craft... and every single other movie that seems like pale imitations of the movies that I goddamn loved when I was growing up).

Hey everybody,

Got a breaking news story for you.

The Nervous Breakdown's Literary Experience is on for April 10, 2010 here in Los Angeles.

We'll be doing a live show over in Echo Park at The Echo in conjunction with Stories Bookstore.

Live music. Live readings. Live human beings.

Will be reporting back with the official-official details in the next week or so.

But you heard it here first.

-BL

Who knew that Bigelow's win for best director last night was the first such win for a woman? This seems insane to me. And I suppose we shouldn't make anything of the fact that she won for a film that, despite some murmurings early on about how she lent a "feminine touch" to the raw dealings of war was, let's face it, a "boy movie."

So the Oscars are tonight.  Once again, I've been snubbed by the committee, all because of the pesky fact that my screenplay has not been made into a movie yet.

I used to be, like, way into this stuff.  Every year, when the big night rolled around, I'd have watched at least four of the five Best Picture entries, plus usually a bunch of other, lesser films.

This year?  Well, we watched The Hurt Locker last night.  It was hilarious!  Other than that, though, I'm more qualified to parse episodes of Max and Ruby than Academy Award-approved motion pictures.

And, I mean, shit.  Why are then ten freakin' Best Picture nominees?  Isn't that sort of like in nursery school, how you have to bring a Valentine for the whole class?

I'm stoked that Alec Baldwin is one of the hosts.  I know he's overexposed, and also a bit puffy these days, but I've been wanting him to take that stage since the early 90s. (Sorry, Garrett Socol).  "Put...that statue...down.  It's for closers."  But then, I really enjoyed when Letterman did it, so what do I know?

I think Mo'Nique is a shoo-in for a statue, because of the Academy's long-stated desire to laud someone with an apostrophe in her name.  Plus, I mean, did you see Precious?  Me, neither.  But Stephanie did, and said it was very well done, and that it makes our troubles seem minor in comparison. Which may be, but I'd rather re-watch Bruno (like me, snubbed by the Academy).

Meryl Streep!  She's the Henry Clay of the Academy.  She commands a sizable bloc of voters, but not enough to win her the presidency statue.  Plus, they need to apotheosize Sandra Bullock, so they can do the whole "Academy Award winner" thing when promoting future rom-coms, like they do with Julia Roberts.

The dudes, I don't know.  I bet Jeremy Renner was the best of the bunch, but will they really give it to him?  Or will they wait and nominate him again for his portrayal of Hawkeye in The Avengers?  And were any of these guys better than Sacha Baron Cohen in Bruno?  Was shooting in Jordan, right near the Iraqi border, any more daring than telling a Hamas leader, in Lebanon, that Bin Laden looks like a "dirty Santa Claus"?  Did Renner have to subject himself to time-stop photography on his erection?

Nine really came and went.  Did anyone see it?  Does it actually exist?  They should call it Nein.

If James Cameron wins, will he hold up the statue and say, "I'm on top of the world...of blue people I invented on the rim of the Solar System!"?

Didn't see Avatar.  I'll hold out for the sequel, Gravatar.

I'm rooting for Music by Prudence to win short doc.

And I will hold out hope that whoever presents Best Picture pulls a Kanye West and says, "Fuck that.  This statue belongs to Bruno!", followed by Baron Cohen, in character, planting a sloppy wet kiss on whoever gives the boring Jack Valenti speech.

Enjoy, folks!

This is all Brad Listi's fault. He had to go and talk about the weather, didn't he?

I was sitting in my car yesterday, watching as, in the space of about five minutes, the sky turned black. Soon after, something hit the roof with a high-velocity 'clunk!'

What the fu- I thought, and suddenly hail started to cascade down around me. I had five minutes to go before a pickup, so all I could really do was sit there and watch as the skies opened and hope none of the hail would shatter the windows of the car.

When the call to come and collect came, I had to shout to be heard over the sound of the ice cascading down from the sky.

The next couple of days have been a document of the crazy weather descending on Melbourne this weekend. Houses, train stations, cinemas... all of them have had holes punched through their roofs by the force of the frozen water that the sky threw down at us over the weekend. Reports have come in about hailstones the size of tennis balls, flash floods that swept through the streets of the CBD, trees swept over roads.

Mother Nature appears to be mightily pissed off. Lightning and thunder are still rolling in the distance, and, thanks to Irene Zion and her musings on the same subject, I'm wondering if this is a sign.

I can't really think of what to say. It's raining in Los Angeles. When I can't think of what to say, I'll generally mention the weather. This happens on elevators, and on the telephone, and at "business meetings" and whatnot. People talking about the weather when they don't know what else to talk about.

I realized earlier today that I don't know what the word macrobiotic means.  I saw it on the cover of a magazine.  The magazine was sitting on the kitchen counter.  I thought to myself:  I don't understand.

I still don't.

Let me go to Wikipedia and look it up:

Not being a proper film buff, I can't claim to know all the films and genres referred to in Tarantino's most recent film "Inglorious Basterds". But despite the enjoyment film buffs likely get from all the nods and allusions tucked within the film--a film even a dummy like me can see is about the power of film--I can't help but wonder if there isn't an element of self-sabotage going on here.

I probably step over (or walk around) at least three homeless people a day.  Earlier today, just before sunset, I stepped over a guy splayed out on the sidewalk next to a grocery store, passed old cold.  He looked wasted.  And exhausted.  This sort of thing is normal where I live.

Then, as I kept walking, I had the usual inner debate:

I should empty my pockets.  Give 'em everything I got.  I should go home and get my sleeping bag and bring it back here.  Give it to the guy.  I never use the goddamn thing.

I had nothing on me.  Just an iPod.

Like most people who use word processing applications, I'm by now perfectly used to seeing those colored squiggly lines appear below phrases or sentences deemed grammatically incorrect. And as a subset of this group no doubt also does, I typically ignore them. I know what I'm saying, after all, and I'm aware when it deviates from standard grammatical rules. But a recent discussion I had regarding the heap of narrative do's and don'ts piled on students of composition, e.g. Show don't tell, led me to wonder how useful it would be to have such prescriptive narrativity rules built into a word processor. Let's call it Story Perfect.

Would you use Story Perfect to compose fiction? What if it could check your metaphors for alignment? What if it could help you ensure your protagonist's language was "in character"? Or help you pick the appropriate moment for your climax? And would the result still be "your story?" Though it may seem intrusive to most writers, we do this on some level anyway: internalize rules we've learned and reproduce them on the page. Why not have a little reminder during the moments of inspiration?

Just in case you haven't had your daily dose of weird, here's a good one for you.

I had some weird dreams last night. And what makes them even weirder is that I don't remember them with any specificity, but I do remember that they were weird.

I read a long essay on Michel de Montaigne last night before going to bed. How he was supposedly "the first modern man." I've tried reading his essays. I have them on my nightstand. I think I keep them there to make myself feel smarter or something.  The truth is that I can't get through them.  And this is the case with a lot of books that are supposed to be hugely important and legendary.  I can't get through them. I can't fully appreciate them.  But I keep them on my nightstand.  Something must be wrong with me.

I can't get through Shakespeare---and I'm a "writer." I mean, I've read Shakespeare.  For school.  Years ago.  But if I'm being honest, I would have to say I didn't really love it.  I have no urge to pick it up again.  I can't get through most of the classics.  Most of the time they bore me.  I try to read them in bed and within seconds I'm falling asleep.

Dear Tim Kring,

I have a special request. One which I'm sure that many people hold close to their hearts, fondly whispering to the skies, possibly with the preface 'Dear Tim Kring, wherever you are...'

Can I please have some of your money? Because I feel owed.

My request is this: can you please not make another terrible season of Heroes?

I know, I know. I've been harping on about this for a while. But the problem is that just when I think your show can't get any worse, there it goes and just drops the ball even further. It's as if I dated a really beautiful, really wonderful girl for 22 weeks, she went on holiday, then came back, and she was Herman Munster. Then she did it again, except this time she was Herman Munster's non-union equivalent. And then she repeated the process one more time, and she became myself, and I was forced to experience first-hand just how horrible it is to date me.

This is how most TNB posts are written.

BL:  Hello?

LENORE ZION:  Hello.

So let's start the interview.

Okay.

Are you on anything right now?

Cat food.

Cat food?

Crush it up, snort it, sleep better at night.  Try it.

Dear Ed McBain,

I recently re-discovered your 87th Precinct novels. Man. Let me tell you. While you never really scaled the literary heights like, say, Pynchon, Wolfe, or Seuss, that was a solid series you had going on there.

It was a sad day when you succumbed to laryngeal cancer. I didn't know that until I'd looked you up on Wikipedia. I didn't know you wrote the screenplay to The Birds, either. How about that!

Apparently you fell out with Hitchcock over a scene in the adaptation of the novel Marnie. Don't feel too bad. Hitchcock and Chandler fell out too. Chandler is quoted as saying 'Look at that fat bastard trying to get out of his car!', so I'm going to assume that the relationship wasn't a good one.

Now that I think about it, that's pretty mean. Hitchcock struggled with his weight all his life.

Still, as an impartial observer, and from what I've read of your books, you'd appreciate it as a scene, if nothing else.

I like the way that your characters unfold across the books. Poor Bert Kling. He was a nice guy - why'd you go and give him such a hard time? Then again, you were nothing if not a good observer of the unfairness of life. And you seemed to have such sympathy for people. Affection, even.

I don't think I'd call you a great writer, Ed. A solid writer, for sure. And a great storyteller. That's a pretty good combination, and I'm glad you were around. I don't even really read crime fiction as a rule, but then, I guess there's always an exception. I'm glad you're mine.

OK

Simon.