More things published. Cold weather bullshit. Bull shit can be one or two words, cool.

One of my poems was selected to be in The Broken Plate. That's pretty sweet. I was an editor on the magazine last year. This was the first year outside submissions were accepted. Mark Neeley is the faculty member in charge. He's an awesome guy. One time in class he got really pissed at me, but I was high. Probably being a huge dick. Ask Dan Bailey. He was there.

So it's really cold outside. The kind of cold that makes your skin burn when you wear jeans you pulled out of the dryer. Those jeans shrank a size. It rubs the top of your ass the way your ex- did. Finger tips feel like sand stuck in your toenail bed. Ouch. Whatever, though. It's supposed to be 54 on Wednesday, and fucking 61 on Saturday. Mother Nature likes supplying allergies, hives and bloated sinuses. What a wench. It's her business.

**

You know how some "radical people" (just type radical people into 'Google,' it might make sense) blame music or Grand Theft Auto on young kids killing their classmates or for punching their girlfriend in a movie theatre? Well, I never believed that shit.

That is, until I listened to this album:

This shit skies above you like Kareem's skyhook and belts you right on the jaw. Try running away from this album, I dare you. It's Anton Chigurh asking you to step out of the car. It's  wind blowing an apple tree bare. It's a lethal does of something.

Here are a few album recommendations:

Yeah. Bam. Buy this one, son. And this one.