Think you’ve got a rough Thanksgiving this year? Maybe so. But just look at everything one poor, round-headed kid had to deal with.
You. I see you, the one who “doesn’t read science fiction.” C’mere a sec. *hooks arm around reader’s shoulders* Guess what? I get it, I do. But believe me, science fiction isn’t all about rocketships and mad scientists.
“To become more than successful—to become invincible—a brand must occupy a position in the consumer’s soul.” Matt Gonzales explores two of modern America’s most unbreakable brands.
“When the promises of liberty, opportunity, and justice are being broken week after week—whether for all people or a certain group of people—what do we owe to the symbols that claim to stand for them?” Robin Beery on a father’s protest and the distinction between a nation and its symbols.
“‘Jimi Hendrix died,’ my stepdad said through the window in the radio room, or maybe I just overheard him announce it to someone through that black microphone. I did know, even at ten, who Jimi Hendrix was. I was surprised my dad knew.” Marisa Mangani on recurrently remembering the death of a legend.
“I ignored that thought and said, I’ll bring his first album in tomorrow, if you like. You can borrow it and burn a copy, and he said, thanks, though really I don’t think he cared either way, or was particularly interested in hearing this DJ Rupture, it would make him look uncool, and even if he did end up liking it, he couldn’t say so, not in public anyway, or to me.” Stephen Mander tells the story of a CD he’s never getting back.
“I can grow a long bushy beard, or I can shave my head. Put eyeliner on me and see how brooding I become (I’m thinking of Mr. Jabapuppee from Ziti Underbelly). These choices are all up to you.” New fiction by Doug Cornett.
How do you solve Indianapolis’s violent crime problem in “those neighborhoods”? We may have actually found some common ground with Tony Katz. (Probably not.)
Tony Schwartz, the ghostwriter responsible for The Art of the Deal—and he seems to think, Donald Trump himself—has come forward to say that he pretty much hates Donald Trump and is sorry he wrote the book. One of his grudges seems to be that Trump claimed to have written the book that Mr. Schwartz himself…
What is a cellular narrative? Benjamin Tedoff offers thirteen perfect examples.
In our last Punchcard, we talked about the virtues of reading (books mostly). This week, we’re talking about one of books’ chief competitors—after streaming video, Pokemon Go, and competitive bass fishing. Namely, reading on the Internet. Since springing fully formed from the loins of Al Gore in the nineteen-nineties, the Internet has become a vast, ever-changing repository of written…
Readers sometimes have an uncertain relationship with the act of reading. We want it to be good for us—we want there to be some moral/mental/spiritual justification for the fact that we spend our leisure time losing ourselves in someone else’s words. Couldn’t you argue, after all, that reading encourages empathy? And we could all use…
I am normal, I think, in all regards except for the fact that I still live with my parents. I read somewhere or heard somewhere not long ago that more and more adults these days live with their parents. It is comforting to know that I, that my girlfriend and I, are not in a league of our own, so to speak.
Time for another exciting Punch Card, in which we talk about things other people have written and add some text and links to jazz things up. Today, we’re taking on plagiarism and coming back with a shocking recommendation: Don’t do it.
“Once, a boy received a low grade, the lowest we could receive: a “U,” unsatisfactory. I remember he had sandy hair and very blue eyes. I think his name was Tommy. He cried, loud, heaving tears that made him hiccup and splotched his face red. Eventually, a nurse escorted him from the classroom.” Carla Dash on avoiding undue effort.
“Of course I couldn’t keep up with Anatoli/but that didn’t keep him from refilling my shot glass./In between the endless shots of vodka/I swallowed too many pieces of salted Black Sea fish.” A new poem by Dan Grossman.