This is probably going to be my last post for a couple of months — not like that’s an unusual pace for me, but I have a reason this time.  In just a few days I’m going to Costa Rica for two months to write a book that may or may not be set in the 18th century and may involve pirates.  Old-timey ones, with eyepatches, parrots, etc.  Meantime, I’m waiting out this hurricane in New York that I’m 90% sure is going to turn out to be all newsroom bluster; sort of a Y2K for the weather.

I had an amazing time at the Bread Loaf Writing Conference in Vermont earlier this month.  I met a lot of great friends, and heard a lot of great literature being read.  Also, I wrote an article about the recent documentary film Project Nim for Dissent Magazine.

And there’s more.  Two friends of mine have books coming out nowish: Stuart Nadler’s fantastic collection of stories, The Book of Life

and Justin Torres’ We the Animals.

Buy these books!  Read them!

Ciao.

Winsomely

Car trouble

Agenbite of itwit

Barrel of hay

Cecilia Babbage

Whippersnapper

Here’s my piece.  It’s kind of funny, and I figured what the hell, I’ll post it on this blog.  Enjoy.  Or don’t.  Whatever.

The Whippersnapper

(Some Hideously Clichéd Situations Involving a Barrel of Hay, in the Tense of Present)

By Benjamin Hale

“God!” says Cecilia.  “I’ve never felt so alive!”

“Me too, baby,” says the barrel of hay.  “Me too.”

It is a torturously hot day.  The desert wobbles hazily with heat waves all around them.  Hopeful, presumptuous vultures reel in their gyres overhead.  They are sailing, fucking sailing, doing about ninety-five down Highway 35.  The backseat is loaded with Hefty bags stuffed full of hot cash, as they have just robbed Texas First National.  A messy job.  Shot two men dead in the getaway.  Figure they have about twenty-five minutes to pilot Cecilia’s now-late husband’s midnight-blue Caddy across the border before every pig in the Lone Star State picks up their scent on the radio.  The barrel of hay is at the wheel, Cecilia in shotgun with her bare feet kicked up on the dash, the wind winsomely whipping her hair into a flurry.  They are in a car, and they are in trouble.  Big trouble.  But somehow, she’s never felt this good in years.

Cecilia Babbage turns to the barrel of hay.  A few stray strands of hay are blowing out of the top of the barrel in the wind.  Goddamn, this barrel of hay is the sexiest thing she’s ever laid eyes on.  The ruggedness of the rough-hewn staves.  Even the barrel of hay’s flaws turn her on.  The multiple felony convictions.  The knothole in the barrel’s side, through which she can see clear through to the hay inside him.  The missing rivets in the hoops.  The bung hole.

“Barrel of hay,” she says.  “I love you.”

EARLIER THAT DAY…

All told, agenbite of inwit has had better days.

“You’re fired, inwit,” said the boss, arms akimbo, belly sagging, cigar wet and fat between his chomping teeth.  “Clear your desk!”

Lousy stupid boss, agenbite of inwit grumbles miserably on his drive home.  Long commute.  Guess this is the last time we’ll have to do that.  The cardboard box half full of office supplies sitting on the passenger seat beside him bucks and rattles over the bumps, looking as pathetic and forlorn as agenbite of inwit feels.  Agenbite of inwit is not looking forward to explaining to the wife why exactly he’s arriving home in the middle of the day.

He parks the car in the garage, but does not get out right away.  Delaying the inevitable.  His head is a swarm of nasty thoughts.  Financial worries.  Debts.  Mortgage default.  Kids will be in college soon.  He rests his forehead against the steering wheel and listens to the feeble ticking of the engine cooling down.  Briefly, he catches himself wondering how long it would take to die of carbon monoxide poisoning.  He is a failure.

Regret.  Remorse.  These things practically define agenbite of inwit.

He takes the keys out of the ignition and enters the house.

Right away, something seems definitely not right.

“Hello?” he calls.  His voice echoes off the white walls.  “Cecilia, I have some bad news.”

Where the hell is she?

Going up the stairs, agenbite of inwit feels his feet growing slower and heavier with each step, as if gravity is condensing with his ascent.

He hears noises.  Coming from the bedroom.

Oh God.

The noises are unmistakable.

Agenbite of inwit stands in the hallway before the closed bedroom door.  For a long time.  Trying to decide what to do.  He knows the gist of the situation—but not the particulars.  Does he really want to see this?

Sick curiosity gets the better of him.

He opens the door.

The room is hot—moist with sex, as steamy and reeking as a rhino pen.  The windows are fogged.  His wife, Cecilia, née Babbage, is sprawled across the bed, on her hands and knees, her fingers clawing at the sheets as if for dear life, her face twisted into a grimace, an expression of ecstasy so intense it almost looks like a wince of pain—an expression he knows well, but has not seen in years.  Legs spread as wide as a four-lane freeway, she proffers herself, arching her ass into the air, while, kneeling behind her, a barrel of hay slams in and out of her like a jackhammer.  The bed wobbles and creaks, knocks against the wall.  Their wedding photo on the bedside table is lying on its face.

Slap, slap, slap, slap, go the glistening globes of her sweaty ass against the coarse wooden slats of the barrel of hay.

“Oh, Cecilia,” says the barrel of hay.

“Oh, barrel of hay,” says Cecilia.  “Yes, yes!  Harder, harder!”

And then the barrel of hay looks up, and notices agenbite of inwit standing in the doorway.

Agenbite of inwit cannot believe his eyes.

How could she?

How?

I have a few items of news.  First of all, I had the tremendous honor of interviewing Frans de Waal, a brilliant guy and sort of a personal hero of mine, for Religion Dispatches.  He discusses veneer theory, social/moral behavior in animals, and other stuff that I’m obsessed with.

Also, I wrote a short essay about Psalm 8 for Harper’s Magazine (the cover piece in the June issue, which just came out!).  It’s about the 400 year anniversary of the King James Bible: a round robin of sorts of essays and poems about various parts of the KJV.  The other pieces are by John Banville, Charles Baxter, Dan Chiasson, Paul Guest, Howard Jacobson and Marilynne Robinson, which is a whale of a lineup.

And that ain’t all!   I have a longish short story in Volume 56 of the spectacular literary journal Conjunctions, which also just hit the stands.  Also in the issue is an amazing story by my good friend Alexandra Kleeman, who also recently published a story in the Paris Review, and who I challenge you to not a little fall in love with while watching her cover Prince on her ukelele:

Alexandra’s story is The Brief History of Weather.  Mine is titled The Minus World, which you may recognize is a Super Mario Bros. reference:

Not only have I known Alexandra for about nine years (we both hail from Boulder, Colorado), but we are both reading from Conjunctions:56: Terra Incognita: The Voyage Issue at its release party at Book Court in Brooklyn this Friday evening at 7, along with Peter Straub and Tim Horvath, with Susan Daitch emceeing.  I insist you come.  Plus I think there’ll be booze, if you’re into that.

And finally, everyone should immediately go out and buy Anna North’s book, America Pacifica, which comes out today, I believe.  It’s fucking awesome.

Now, after a visit to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, by which I mean San Francisco, where I read at the fantastic bookstore Book Passage in Marin County, I’m back in action in New York.  Or at least sitting around drinking coffee and struggling out from under a pile of unanswered emails and thinking about cleaning my sordidly messy apartment.

But for more plugs.  I’m giving a couple of readings here in New York next week, to which, if you live here or near here, you should come.  The first is at the official two-year anniversary of the Franklin Park Reading Series, officiated by Penina Roth, at Franklin Park in Crown Heights, Brooklyn.  It starts at 8, on Monday the 14th.  I’m reading with Jami Attenberg, Susan Shapiro, Ophira Eisenberg and Moshe Schulman, and I promise  it’ll be a trip and a half.

And that ain’t all!

On Thursday, March 17th — that’s St. Patrick’s Day, honoring the rich heritage of my Irish ancestors, who left the Emerald Isle because they were starving, having run out of potatoes (See?  ) — I’m reading at Pete’s Candy Store, in my own northside Brooklyn stomping grounds, along with J Milligan.  You should absolutely come to that and do a few Irish Car Bombs with me and the ghost of Flann O’Brien, who may be making a secret celebrity guest appearance.

That’s the news.  Goodnight and good luck.

When I started “The Evolution of Bruno Littlemore,” I began to have worrisome Proustian flashbacks of being a chimp in a weird but normal family of very cute chimps in very cute outfits who lived in my house and ate coveted breakfast cereals with me—Wheat Chex, Corn Chex, and Rice Chex—who are maybe on “The Ed Sullivan Show” around the time of the Beatles?

Flash. Gnaw. Niggle….
Google.
Ah-ha!Thanks to mass connectivity, I am able to figure out fairly quickly that I’m flashing on possibly the first TV show I ever saw, a short-lived flop I never knew the name of, but, apparently, admitted entirely into my evolving consciousness, as Bruno does “Sesame Street,” peaches, Lydia, and much else. Sponsored by Ralston Purina, the show was called “The Hathaways,” and it featured the Marquis Chimps: Candy, Enoch, and Charlie (who, I think, may be Hale’s models for Hilarious Lily, Hilarious Larry, and Clever Hands).

I had never heard of that TV show before.  Like she said, it was apparently a complete flop.  I wonder why:

In fact, the model for the former chimp-actor characters she mentions was more this bullshit:

In any event, I’m strongly against the use of chimps in entertainment.  Putting them in movies psychologically fucks them up, probably even worse than it fucks up child actors, and they don’t even get trust funds they can later turn into mountains of coke and roomfuls of Jimmy Choos.