So I've been scribbling for years. Napkins, phone bills, tattered notebooks and a score of other miscellaneous scraps of paper are littered with thoughts both directed and free-willed. A selection of these slices taken from my (depraved? pathetic? mediocre?) mind are to be found here. I've just recently decided to post a selection of reviews that I've written over the years - some published, others of a less rigorous nature. This move was inspired by a mate o' mine who's just begun work on his own critical lair (check it out!). I can only hope that in perusing the included pieces the reader does not find him/herself cast into a state of ennui at the sheer tedium encountered. I apologize for the preceding self-deprecation. Ta-tu-ta-ta.

Verse

Prose

Criticism

This may be it (for a while) (it's 12:226 on 15 June 2001)
So as some of you (the use of the preceding phrase, of course, assumes that more than one person - myself excluded - ever reads this) I'm getting, as it is said, "the fuck outta Dodge" (Madison, in this case). My move will actually be taking me across the large body of water known as the Atlantic Ocean. This makes me happy, but makes My Room sad. See, as a result of all of this, I don't expect to be near a computer for quite some time (I'm planning a bit of a vacation prior to getting productive and earning a living). So I really hope that if you've come across this complex of html documents that you've enjoyed yourself, and that you'll check back in the future, 'cos things might just change. Happy trails.

I'm bored (it's 15:54 on 29 May 2001)
don't really know why I've decided to do this, but it seems that I may be treating this section of the page as a sort of confessional. Growing up in a protestant family made me yearn for all those magic words and beads that the catholic kids got to play with (not really, but let's just say that it did for the strength of this here argument). Thus, I'll pretend that this lovely little slab of binary is, in actuallity, a booth complete with a middle-aged, balding, celibate man on the other side of some of that old-fashioned yellowing mesh. Ok?
So, since I've found out that I'm nothing more than a collection of replicators (thank you very much, Dr Blackmore), I've been feeling rather introspective. Nothing seems to help - I tried stupid Hollywood action (Wesley Snipes should really stick to Willy Mays Hays) as well as a brilliant English comic. What can I say? I'll just sit and listen to some of the tastiest noise (aka Mercury Rev's Boces) this side of deafness and deal. C'est la vie, non? Ou, peut-etre, c'est la mort. Non, je pense qu'il n'est pas la vie et il n'est pas la mort - il existe simplement.