Tag Archives: Amanda Stirling

“Within, the wealthy lament/ The traffic at the Whitestone Bridge.”

Here’s a particularly nice shot of the Whitestone Bridge, connecting Queens, New York, with the Bronx (and Connecticut beyond).  My Longwood High School Alumnus James Dentel shot this recently, and he was kind enough to let me use it.

This is the bridge referenced in my poem, “Amanda,” which was featured by Dagda Publishing and by Dead Snakes.

I used live not far from here.  Yes, New York can be a rough place, but Whitestone, Queens and adjacent Beechurst were two of the greatest neighborhoods I ever inhabited.




To all those who I regaled on Monday with my newly memorized “Song of the Master and Boatswain,” by W.H. Auden, I apologize for being an idjit and incorrectly pronouncing its title as “Master and BOAT’S-Wayne.”

Sigh … the Internet, forever helping to edumucate me, informs me that, of course, it is pronounced “Song of the Master and BO-sin.”

See this link:  

That’s “Bo-sin.”  You know … like when Bo Duke commits adultery.

This writer gig would be so much easier if I could only master this … ENGLISHY thing.

OH!  Amanda!!  That reminds me!!  I apologize also for utterly destroying your car today!!  (As the mood tonight is one of penitence, I figured I’d work that one in there …)  We can work out a payment plan, right?  And … I can, like … pay you in verse, or something … right?   

See this link, Honey:


“Magic potion,” sent by mail.

This arrived yesterday from my Connecticut Muse — a “magic potion” for  a writer’s productivity.

People close to me know I can be a bit skeptical where paranormal claims are concerned, but I can vouch for this, at least.

It’s some damned fine “dark” sorcery, and tasty too.  Thanks, Amanda.  🙂



Doing a book swap with Amanda, a writer friend in Connecticut — I almost stuck a couple of McDoubles in the box for the three-day First Class Mail journey.

She is my “homeopathic pal,” who is constantly exhorting me to eat better, and keeps getting me to put strange things into my body.  [NOTE TO ALL REPUBLICANS READING THIS:  I said “homeoPATHIC,” and the “strange things into my body” I’m referring to are …  like … distilled essence of reindeer horn and powdered Romanian wildflower and stuff.  So relax; she isn’t assailing your Institution of Marriage.  Also, tell Sarah Palin I said that she’s just cute as a button.]

Anyway … the cheeseburger gag — should I do it?  The Post Office Lady Who is Always Annoyed With Me regularly asks me those Homeland Security-esque questions whenever I mail a package … is anything flammable?  Is anything made of hazardous materials?  It’s sometimes fun, because it makes me feel like “The Jackal” (the Bruce Willis version) on his way to do battle with the incongruously charming Irish Republican Army member Richard Gere.  (Man, did that movie ever send mixed messages about terrorism.)

But is it legal to send burgers through the mail as a gag?  The Post Office Lady never specifies “cheeseburgers” in her queries. And don’t go making the obvious joke that food from MacDonald’s is always “hazardous materials” because I hear enough of that from my friends, and I LOVE MCDOUBLES.  (“Diagnosis? Delicious.”)

I hope it’s cool, because I really need a truly diabolical plan to impress upon Amanda that I do, in fact, have a sense of humor.  The other night, she told me that “my darkness can get in the way of me being a truly free spirit,” which is so goddam abstract that I’m not sure what to make of it.  I … don’t THINK it was an insult, and it’s possible that she was just all toked up again after smoking powdered reindeer horn or something.

If you are reading this blog entry, Amanda, here’s a poem excerpt just for you:

“Altogether elsewhere, vast

Herds of reindeer move across

Miles and miles of golden moss,

Silently and very fast.”

Those are the closing lines of W.H. Auden’s “The Fall of Rome.”  Rattle of that one at your next Earth Day celebration.  Now put the pipe down, Honey.

I feel certain my mother will e-mail me with spelling corrections for this blog entry’s headline, because, despite my best efforts, she still misunderstands the concept of LOLcats:

Me: They’re kittens.

Mom: It’s spelled wrong.

Me:  That’s the joke … the kittens can’t spell.

Mom:  But the kittens can use a computer?

Seriously, for someone who grew up before the Internet, the concept of LOLcats is hard to explain.  Schrodinger’s cat would probably easier.

So e-mail me your advice on the cheeseburger gag after you devote some serious thought to it.  In the meantime, tremble before these two portraits of diabolical plan formation.  Dear Lord … WE EVEN LOOK ALIKE.