I sent something new to McSweeney's. They said the last thing was "too fictiony," whatever that means. The new thing is written in the second person- it's 400 words and more like a prose poem. Maybe they will like it. Who knows. If I knew what they were buying I'd try and sell it, I guess.

I bought two sport coats today. $9. They were out of nifty trousers that fit, though there was a pair of camel hair slacks on clearance that I NEARLY made work. Turns out they weren't slack at all.

I drove. I walked the dog. I looked at books but could not talk myself into any of them. I read a story from a collection called My Mistress' Sparrow is Dead. I liked the story, but didn't like the price of the book. I paged through some Byron. I thought about buying Bukowski's book of poems dedicated to John Fante. I thought about buying the Hesse novel about a Swede who finds meaning by caring for an invalid. I almost bought a fork that extends like a radio antenna. Have not graded student essays. Need to work on my own stuff. Too busy putting it off, like now.

I went out to lunch with my parents on Friday. They ordered fish because they are Catholic, and I ordered steak because I am in denial. My dad got to talking about other Catholics who think war is a good idea. He gets pretty riled up talking about it. Those people have never had to figure out what they believe, I said. They've been told their whole lives what's a good idea and what isn't. I forked a cube of steak into my mouth, and the fish looked pretty good too.