Watching The Empire Strikes Back as a child does not prepare you for the first time you field-dress an animal in the snow. Yes, the organs balloon out as if they’re instantly inflating, like when Han Solo cuts open the Tauntaun. But then comes a lot of work. Ten minutes into gutting, I’m “ringing the ass,” running a four-inch German hunting knife around a pelvic canal while Uncle Cy, an experienced hunter, hisses useful advice in my ear, like “Don’t ruin my fucking knife.” And “You just ruined my fucking knife.”
Book Fight! did a series of reports from the AWP Bookfair. I listened to them in the airport yesterday, a kind of “leaving AWP” fix. They’re good. I did one — I’m literally baffled at what my voice sounds like (I’m convinced it’s “two days of talking at the bookfair”-raspy) and not quite baffled but a grade or two down that I say “shore” so much. Anyway. They’re kinda fun listening, even if the only thing in the lit world more bullshit than Barrelhouse is Book Fight!