Come with us to a place called Brooklyn, where the stories are half-baked and their endings bland and soft.

To achieve this miracle, certain writers produce Brooklyn Books of Wonder. Take mawkish self-indulgence, add a heavy dollop of creamy nostalgia, season with magic realism, stir in a complacency of faith, and you’ve got wondrousness. The only thing that’s more wondrous than the BBoW narratives themselves is the vanity of the authors who deliver their epistles from Fort Greene with mock-naïve astonishment, as if saying: “I can’t really believe I’m writing this. And it’s such an honor that you’re reading it.” Actually, they’re as vain and mercenary as anyone else, but they mask these less endearing traits under the smiley façade of an illusory Eden they’ve recreated in the low-rise borough across the water from corrupt Manhattan.

If Christopher Hitchens is right and Al Gore wins the Nobel Peace Prize, I may feel compelled to an act of self-immolation (and unleash a few more deadly toxins into the environment).

Well, probably not. . . . That might be a slight overreaction. But not that slight.

As Hitchens writes (and it’s probably the only intelligent thing he’s written):

Don’t ask what a campaign against global warming has done for “peace”; that would be like asking what Mother Teresa or Henry Kissinger had ever done to reduce global conflict. The impression is the main thing.

Handing Gore the Nobel Peace Prize would be a victory for the world’s do-gooders, henchmen of the insidious “Nanny State,” and a tragic loss for those of us who believe that we are best equipped to manage our lives.

Live free or die.

Should you ever find yourself hungry in San Diego, run, don’t walk, to The Linkery in the North Park neighborhood.

Saturday night’s sausage samplings included Polish, hot Italian, and Andouille. Washed down with a Sculpin IPA from the Ballast Point Brewing Company.

A perfect, casual neighborhood restaurant.

Probably a good thing there’s nothing like this in Laguna Beach. I’d be there every night (so many sausages, so little time).

Two weeks of writing down the tubes after The Wife—my first reader—last night confirmed my suspicions that I was off-track.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had to flush a couple weeks of work: it’s all part of the process. Considering the difficulty I’ve had getting back into my manuscript, however, this feels like more of a setback than like a part of the process.

I think I’m missing those Wednesday afternoon bullshit sessions with my second reader, Scott, at The Blarney Stone (R.I.P.). That’s no excuse, though. I knew what I was giving up when we moved. I don’t regret the move; my only regret is that we left so many behind.

Overlook Press (how I love thee) has issued a new edition of True Grit, the only Charles Portis novel I haven’t read. True Grit is probably Portis’ most recognizable work because of the John Wayne movie. That’s a great pity, because he is an American comedic treasure (and one helluva writer).

Unlike the Allied prisoners, however, I hope everyone of these buggers is caught and killed.

I never knowingly eat farmed fish. When I’m in doubt and out, I always ask the waiter or waitress if the fish they serve is wild or farmed. The difference is not just in the taste. And I’m no green monster.

According to Roger Brook, of the Rivers and Fisheries Trusts:

This latest release is being blamed on seals, but it is the responsibility of the fish farmers to make their containment systems capable of resisting the native wildlife. It is equally their responsibility to ensure their equipment can resist the weather and conditions that are experienced off the coasts of Scotland. These continual releases of farmed fish lead me to the conclusion that all aquaculture should be brought ashore.

An unexpected overnight trip to Los Angeles on Saturday kept me away from book three of the Jerusalem Quartet, Nile Shadows, for the fourth straight day. I’ve barely made a dent, so, after reading Laura Miller’s review of Tree of Smoke, I’ve decided to take a break from Whittemore.

I’m sure I’ll feel the same when I finish, but Denis Johnson is my favourite contemporary author. I’m stoked. . . .