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Fucking rules.

Pilcrow Recap

Whew. What a weekend. It was a big chore, a huge undertaking, that Pilcrow Lit Fest, but madams Güth and Jones pulled it off with aplomb. Panels were well attended and lively, the NOLA fundraiser was a $mashing $ucce$$ and gobs of fun, and the authors on Sunday trickled back to the homes and cities and airports from whence they came full of smiles and inspiration. [Willy Blackmore's DIY bookbinding demo, along with cues from Tim Schaffert and the Featherproof boys*, got me all riled to start my own boutique press.]

There were photogs and documentarians floating around all four days of the Lit Fest. Some of their great work can be found at the Pilcrow flickr page, or here, or here. More interviews and videos and podcasts and photos to come, surely.

The thank-yous and you-rocks and that-fucking-ruleds are still spawning in inboxes but already talk has turned to Pilcrow '09. It'll be hard to top the inaugural Fest, but whatever plan that Güth hatches is sure to kill.



* I lived in Omaha in the early aughts and what Messinger and Co. are doing—and the hype and groupiedom that follows them—is basically a lit-mirror image of Saddle Creek Records when everyone was fawning over the New Seattle and The New York Times dispatched writers to Nebraska almost monthly to spend weekends profiling Nansel and Oberst. Crazy.

Pilcrow Pretties Make Perfect Presents

You guys, I got a sneak peek last night at the painting Tony Fitzpatrick donated to Saturday night's Pilcrow NOPL auction and it's fucking stunning. Sexy and dirty and sly—remind you of anyone? So of course it needs to be hanging in my office. I'd been saving that space for a Sunday Ticket-powered flatscreen, but I'm rethinking those plans now.

If only there were some sort of occasion happening in the near future that necessitated the gifting of, to me, by you, the aforementioned Fitzpainting. If only.

Talking Type at Pilcrow

Were I moderating or speaking on the Lit vs. Tech panel at Pilcrow on Saturday, I'd surely use this article by Paul Dean as crib notes or a discussion starter. So thorough, so informative (Who knew "#@$%*!" had a name? Not me.).

Dean's history lesson gives me some reassurance that digital will not, in fact, kill the typographer—though I'll never fully embrace the idea of books and newspapers going the way of the rotary telephone, a curious antiquity you think your grandmother foolish for keeping around and actually (eye-roll) using.

Either way, count on me being front-row for this discussion. Should be a good one, with LOLspeak and Twitter nerds on one side and crotchety fuddy-duddies on the other.

Pilcrow: Let's Get Ready to Mingle

Forgive the lack of updates, here at MBD HQ, we're up to our elbows in the final push toward Pilcrow Lit Fest. The posters are done. Programs are printing this week. Various cards and fliers are mostly wrapped up. All in all, things are in good shape and I'm really excited for the weekend. DO drop by for all the litty goodness if you can, but if not, check back here after, when I post some photos of the Fest and samples of the PCL tchotchke.

Flippers and Falsies for the Disney Set

I've been reading The Corrections during my commute to work. It's good and I'm been enjoying it, uncomfortable with but reveling in how claustrophobic and anxious all Franzen's iddly, paranoid characters make me feel. Yesterday after work, rapt with Alfred and the bullying turd, I missed my stop and had to hike a little extra to get home. (The exercise, I figured, couldn't hurt, as I've noticed recently that stairs get me flushed and send my heart revving—and not just because I know Sweetpea lives at the top of those stairs and I'm taking them two and three at a time.)

On the stroll home, I stopped at the park where a couple little league games were in progress. On one field were the tee-ballers, the real tiny guys who corkscrew wildly in the batter's box dirt when they whiff over the top of the ball and whose too-big helmets go all bobblehead as the tinies weave toward third after a hit.

Older kids, maybe grade threes or fours, junior White Sox and mini Reds, were playing on the next field over. We had uniforms back when I was a little league pitcher and weak-hitting infielder, but they weren't, like, real MLB team uniforms. Usually we got a blue or green or red t-shirt with "Philips Siding and Awnings" screenprinted above our numbers on the back. One year we got actual jerseys with our names on the backs and pinstriped pants to play in. I took extra time getting dressed on game days when I had that uniform, making sure the shirt was tucked and and all the seams straight, and hiked up the pants el Duque-style to show off the cool black stirrups. In that uni, I was Ted Williams and George Brett and my Dad all at once. I was badass.

I think, down the road a bit, if I have kids, that baseball in the summer would be great fun, if they want to play. Grammar-school beauty pageants, however, are completely and indisputably out of the question.