Big Lonesome No More

One of the things I've realized over here is how dependent I am on magazines and the like. Just to read something that I don't intend to follow from cover to cover -- that's what I've been craving. Something for the bathroom, bedroom and boudoir. Well, today the cavalry arrived (or the Navy, I should say) in the form of a shipment of magazines from Jim Ruland, formerly of the United States Naval Academy (or at least one of its more far-flung vessels), now a resident of Los Angeles.

Though his debut collection of short fiction, Big Lonesome, didn't arrive with the reading material (it's in the mail, I'm told) you all should all rush out to the local Book Barn and buy a copy (or stay in, eat another bag of chips/pint of ice cream, and do it like this). Having read Ruland's fiction before, along with his non-fiction, I know you'll enjoy what comes your way. And if credentials are what you need, know the man has a grant from the National Endowment of the Arts. If that isn't enough, look at the picture above. The man's got so much ink it spills off his pen and onto his skin.

Okay, now that your 'pass the mic' moment is over, see more things Ruland by visiitng his Big Lonesome blog. That, or attend one of his Vermin on the Mount fiction readings, which have only failed to excite the LAPD into action because of their Chinatown location. "Forget it, Gittes. It's Chinatown." Ruland emcees these affairs, I'm told, and though it hasn't happened yet, he may just bite off the head of a live bat at the next staging, this Saturday. He's just that type of guy. The type not to be scared off by all this bird flu stuff.