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EDITOR'S NOTE
Rumors of my retirement have been greatly exaggerated since it’s not happening until the end of next year.
Thanks to all of you who expressed dismay or otherwise showered praise upon me. Those of you who breathed a sigh of relief—or huzzahed—we know who you are and if you don’t watch out I’ll cancel your subscription.
Coincidentally, an L.A. Times columnist wrote us up on the front page (below the fold), and his take was picked up by the Poets & Writers blog, among others, so word, we hope, has gotten around. Again, if you think of anyone who might like to take over the Titanic, please let me know.
I ought to point out that being editor of this humble journal is not a labor of love. It’s hard work. Lots of people don’t love me. And I get paid. Tom Lutz, who has a story in this issue, wrote a book a couple years ago called Doing Nothing: A History of Loafers, Loungers, Slackers, and Bums in America. He admits that he himself works all the time and, by the same token, does nothing most of the time—it’s hard to tell exactly when he’s working and when he’s slacking off.
That’s my regime, too. I can’t imagine what I’ll do when I’m retired, because I already do what I like to do.
I’m lucky that I decided long ago that golf was not for me, not because I’d spent my youth caddying, but because the only time I ever broke 100 was in the caddy tournament, when I shot a 94 to beat the caddymaster’s son, 4 and 3. Caddying, by the way, is good training to be an editor: (1) It’s an obsolete vocation, (2) you’re just a schlepper, although you may know the course better than your player and might even be able to hit the ball better, and (3) the tips are never quite what they ought to be.
Meanwhile, I’d like to admit my greatest career mistake: I never imagined that ZYZZYVA would last so long. If I had, I would have given every writer we published a lifetime subscription and kept every donor and celeb and writing program and critic and otherwise interested party on the comp list as well. And thereby built up a permanent, if not always attentive, audience. Not subscribing is too easy. It’s only prudent, therefore, to be generous. Speaking of which, thank you for your own generosity, which has made all this endurance possible and, inshallah, will make possible a little bit more.
FIRST TIME IN PRINT
James Kearns: Big Jack & Son (story)
Jarett Kobek: The Whitman of Tikrit (story)
Maggie Shen King: Perfect Gifts for Mother's Day (story)
David Naimon: The Golem of Orla Shalom (story)
Joe Orrach & Lizbeth Hasse: In My Corner (script)
Aliza Rood: Print into the Bruise (poem)
FICTION
Tom Lutz: The Job Interview
Alia Volz: The Inn & Out
NONFICTION
Kate Evans: Santa Cruz / San Jose
William Davies King: Hammerman's O'Neill
POETRY
George Albon: from Sill
Sherman Alexie: Pomegranate Psalm
Craig Santos Perez: [commonwealth]
Jeanine Webb: Embarcadero
Matthew Zapruder: Lesser Heights Are Bathed in Blue
Works on Paper Originally in B&W
Terra Fuller, Keith Hale, Jay Howell, Joel Leivick, Olive Michael Markham, Peter Milton, Jay Nelson, Chris Oatey, Stephen Paley, Juan Carlos Quintana, Paul Schiek
Covers
Front: Susan Logoreci, Rodeo Drive (And the Street of the City Was
Pure Gold, Like Transparent Glass), 2008, colored pencil, 30 x 22
inches, courtesy: Cirrus Gallery, Los Angeles
Back: David Gremard Romero, La Caida, 2008, pastel & gold leaf,
41 x 56 inches, courtesy: Bucheon Gallery, San Francisco
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