These are the pointless ramblings that would take too long to post at www.biffmitchell.com. None of them are important and you really don't want to read any of this, so go away. Read somebody else's damn blog.
So ... what Andrew didn't tell me was that when novelist Charles Foran and I read at the Lighthouse on July 11, we'll be reading from the top of the building, not the deck. Apparently, this makes it easier to throw us to our deaths if they don't like what they hear.
On the other hand, this will make it more difficult for muggers to find us.
posted by Biff at 10:02 p.m.
Biff Mitchell lives at the edge of the world. He has no life. He has no friends. Neighborhood children throw stones at his hovel. At night, Biff throws stones at his hovel. Someday Biff plans to write a book about a man who lives in a hovel that is stoned daily by neighborhood children who—through some magical twist of events—turn into snowmen. When Spring arrives, the man’s house melts.
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