August Ephemera

It's been a month since my last post. Here's the skinny.

• After Barack Obama's stirring and evocative acceptance speech Thursday night, if Grandpa Munster and Miss Alaska are elected over Obama and Biden, then it's time to call it quits. There really is no hope for this country. The rich, stubborn and stupid can claim a thorough victory over anyone with a heart and/or a mind.


• The Tampa Bay Rays are for real. After months of labeling it an aberration, it's finally time to face up to the facts: they're good and can't lose in The Trop.


• The Olympics were a lot of fun to watch. From the China's 8-year-old gymnasts, to Michael Phelps making swimming seem somewhat cool, to NBC's losing out on their ace-in-the-hole All-American story with Shawn Johnson (I went to college with a guy named Shawn Johnson who once cut a wart off his...forget it) for a weirdly incestuous story about an ex-Russian Olympian vicariously living through his American daughter, it was intersting to follow. I do, however, have one bone to grind. When the hell are they going to include the doggie paddle in the swimming events? I am one bad-ass dog-paddler, and my dreams of the gold were dashed by an Olympic Committee prejudice. Fuckers.


• I have some new poems in the September issue of decomP Magazine. Check 'em out.


• Manny found "peace" with the Dodgers, who are currently trailing the mighty Diamondbacks in the mighty NL West, baseball's most pathetic division. After walking out ground balls, faking injuries, and making himself seem like the most misunderstood man since Jesus Christ, he left Boston for LaLa Land at the trading deadline. I say, See you later, buddy. Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out. Jason Bay cares, and it's made all the difference watching it. As a fan. I can only imagine the relief his teammates have felt.


• Chris Adrian's new book A Better Angel is the best short story collection I've read since Jesus' Son. I'm writing a review of it this week, but don't wait. Seriously, you need to read this book. It kicks ass!


• Speaking of a better angel, may God bless New Orleans. I wonder if President Bush will be on the horn with "Brownie" this time? Is God trying to say something to The RNC about global warming by ruining their little party? But Democrats are getting screwed, too. Where else are we going to find white men with sticks the size of telephone poles up their asses trying to dance on prime time? God, are you trying to rock that Old Testament image again?


• It's the last year of historic Yankee Stadium, and Hank Steinbrenner's (who seems to be every bit the douche his dad is) $200 million stable of overpaid lumps of shit are not going to see the post-season. When the lights go out in Yankee Stadium for the last time, it will be in September against the Baltimore Orioles. Maybe, finally, Yankee fans will stop yapping about their 25 World Championships and catch up with the new millennium. Here's a hint: buying an All-Star team won't buy you success in baseball. And shame on you, Detroit Tigers, for falling for that con, too.


• Every time I flip over to Fox News, I feel myself getting dumber.


• Joe Biden could possibly be the one person I'd most like to have a beer with. But it would have to be in dive bar with football on the tube and Springsteen on the jukebox. I bet Joe could throw the F-bomb with the best of 'em. Is that gay of me?


• I reread The Book of Revelations one day this summer. If the Jehovah's are correct, we're all in for a serious ass-kicking.

I have written. Hear me whimper.

I've received quite a few zines, journals, and magazines this summer with some of my work included and want to take a moment to give these folks a shout out.

First, my poem "The Thrift Store Shopper" appeared in the Spring 2008 of the venerable Nerve Cowboy. This is a small press staple, an exceptional journal of accessible and enjoyable poetry. It's always a treat to read.

My poem "The Frat Boy I Was (The Idiot I Am)" was published in Issue #6 of the iconoclastic Fight These Bastards. It's a newer zine and very intelligently written and tastefully done.

As my bio reads in their premiere issue, I once had a pet hamster by the same name. Nibble (my hamster's name was Nibbles) recently published my poem "Crash". In an age becoming more and more dominated by the e-zine, this is throw-back to the old school, tangible zine (or at least "old school" for me). It has a clean design and layout and contains some enjoyable short poetry.

The shocker came when I received a package from England the other day with "Printed Matter" on the envelope. I opened it and, at first, I thought it was one of my wife's glossy fashion magazines. Wrong. It was Phoenix, the arts magazine of Imperial College London, who solicited a piece of flash-fiction from me titled "My Real Hair." This is a gorgeous, professional production with kick-ass photography and some damn fine writing. And there were no advertisements. Imagine that. In England, they must actually fund the arts. What a strange concept.

In e-zine news, I have a poem titled "The D-Word" in the new issue of The Orange Room Review. Check it out if you have a minute.

Also, my review of David Guterson's new novel The Other is in this week's Hippo Press. I saw that it has the book editor's byline, but my name is at the bottom. I assure you, I wrote it.

I've been a little out of touch lately. I'm working diligently on a couple of new projects and laying low this summer. It's never a bad thing to take the phone off the hook and disappear every now and then. I think I ripped that line off a Billy Joel song. Wow. What's worse? Ripping off someone else's words, or the fact that it is Billy Joel?

P.S. Check out my Bush Backwards clock on the bottom of the page. I was very proud of myself for figuring out how to post it. It was something I did after watching CSN&Y: Deja Vu On-Demand the other night. I thought it kicked ass. My wife wasn't as pleased. Definitely worth watching though.

New poems

Yours truly is one of The Poets of the Week on The Poetry Super Highway. These two poems are part of a new collection that is slowly coming together. Someday soon, my boy will be a man.

I'm reading at Breaking New Grounds in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, tomorrow night with Lo Galluccio. If you're in the area, try to check it out. The reading starts at 7 p.m. Portsmouth is a very cool place to spend a summer night. Hope to see you there.

How I Became a Small Press Writer

Sorry, again, for the poor quality. If you'd like a better-quality version, drop me an e-mail. In case anyone takes it this wrong way, it is a satire and presses mentioned are fictional. Let me know what you think.

"It's a Girl" (the movie)

This is a movie I made of the poem "It's a Girl" from the collection Honey, I'm Home. Sorry about the poor quality, but it was the only size I could fit on this site. Thanks to Dan and Gregg for the use of their tunes. Enjoy.

P.S. I just posted an acerbic Fourth of July liberal rant then realized what a cliched little bitch I was for doing so and removed it. Let's keep it positive this year.

New story

My short story titled "Sasquatch" is now up on Freight Stories, a very cool and prestigious new fiction journal. Check out the list of contributors in the first two issues and ask yourself, "Who should not be at this table?" Which reminds me, I need to get that check out to Andrew and Victoria. What? Like you've never bribed an editor to pretend to like your work. Liar!

In defense of my mullet.

This incredibly kick-ass live cover of "My Back Pages", which includes some of the most influential and rockin' musicians of our time (or any time for that matter)---i.e. Neil Young, Tom Petty, Eric Clapton, Roger McGuinn, the late-George Harrison, and The Man, himself---was part of the 30th Anniversary Bob Dylan tribute concert in 1992. In 1992, I had a mullet, which many of my friends consider to be on the later-end of mulletdom; thus, making me incredibly un-hip, backwards and behind the times. I finally severed my mullet in 1993, shortly before entering college. However, it's worthy of mention, I quickly replaced the mullet with a spider plant, pseudo-Cobain doo, where I kept the top long and shaved the sides and the back, which, in retrospect, was an even bigger douche doo. Then I grew it all out and became the sensitive ponytail man, an even more ridiculous hair-persona. Basically, I sucked throughout my formative years and beyond. Actually, I'm still a douche with a Supercuts Special.

However, my point for posting this clip is to exonerate myself. Look carefully. George Harrison--- a fucking Beatle, for God's sake!---and Roger McGuinn have mullets. And if you examine this even closer, Neil Young has a little bit of bangs, hence, a mullet. You see, I wasn't a complete turd if Neil friggin' Young was rocking the mullet, too. My mullet had some street cred in 1992. So, hypothetically, were you to visit my parents' place in Rhode Island and see my high school senior portrait framed on the wall in their den and say something like, "Hey, look at Graziano and his lame-ass mullet five years after mullets were popular," I'd say, "Lick my ball-bag, dickwad. George Harrison had a mullet, too."

With enough coaxing, I might post a pic of my mullet on this blog. Maybe. Then again, I'm a public school teacher. Let's change that to doubtful.

Question: Can anyone make out a single word Bob Dylan is singing here? I'm not entirely sure he's singing in English.