I HOPE YOU DIE. I HOPE WE BOTH DIE.
Somebody from Seventeen magazine ordered all of the zines by teenagers carried from Pander distro, which, as some of you know, includes my zine the Patron Saint of Small Things. They sent an e-mail to one of the zinesters with a questionarre and she started a thread about it on Pander's message board; this is how we know. I feel partially relieved that I haven't received the same e-mail, and partially rejected (because a rejection from Seventeen is a rejection is a rejection is a rejection), and partially freaked out about the potential for a huge audience to read some of the unflattering things I wrote about, say, working in Bill DeWeese's district office. I play the "get out your zine and think about what different people would think of it" game all the time, but never have I played on quite this scale before. It's all about deferral and language, baby.

Other than that, I've been listening to the Mountaingoats a bit, especially "No Children," a really droll and bitter song. ("In my life I hope I lie/and tell everyone you were a good wife and I hope you die/I hope we both die/I hope I cut myself shaving/I hope that it bleeds all day long/Our friends say it's darkest before the sun rises/we're pretty sure they're all wrong.") I'm sure that sounds more bitter than droll, but it's a really sing-songy melody, and all together I like it a lot. Other than that, it's all about the records.