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"novel"
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Literary Correspondent, White Cover Magazine
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The funny thing about being an awfully pessimistic website (all the time) is that you eventually become as predictable as the stuff you claim isn’t creative. This doesn’t make you a genius. It makes you a mouth.
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Hardcourt Correspondent, White Cover Magazine
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These are the stories I love. Lit mixes with the world of sports. GQ can’t keep up (because they don’t actually read), and Metta World Peace (oh, Hell, it’s Ron Artest) stands out above the rest of the flock.
The L.A. Lakers have been the public’s punchline for much of Twenty-Thirteen. The fact that 2010′s version of Phil Jackson was keeping track of their reading habits can only increase that scrutiny, even if it’s pretty damn cool.
I can only assume Steve Nash isn’t on this list because he’s just too well-read and the Zen Master doesn’t worry about him. (Well, and because this story is from 2010, which I just realized.) And, I do find Adam Morrison’s reading of Che Guevara’s biography pretty entertaining, if only because I imagine Che getting shot in Bolivia while Gus Johnson screams HEART. BREAK. CITY! in the background.
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Editor, White Cover Magazine
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READ: “Anne of Green Gables Fans Blast New Blond Version” – The Toronto Star (Feb. 7, 2013)
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Do you remember The Red Shoe Diaries?
If you’re a man now, you do. You remember it from your childhood, when you would have touched your dick for anything that looked like two airy orbs squished together. (Really, you haven’t changed much.) You remember seeing David Duchovny in an off-brown — some would say khaki — trenchcoat, walking along some pier or waterfront marina at midnight with his dog, and he’d read letters from young women who’d tell him all about their sexual fantasies, desire, and — most often — experiences. You’d see titties and butt. You’d see sex blow j’s. You’d see everything but the penis going in.
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Lotus Land Correspondent, White Cover Magazine
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What if every famous dead person could see what their legacy has become?
What if F. Scott Fitzgerald could watch a 3D Film starring Leo DiCaprio and directed by Baz Luhrmann?
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Literary Correspondent, White Cover Magazine
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F. Scott Fitzgerald’s wife Zelda was controlled by delusions of grandeur and the poisons of excess. She drove herself, her husband, and their marriage into a shit box fuelled with alcohol and depression. In the end, both went down in a flame — much like Scott’s greatest character did himself — and then had to wait until they died for good. They both burned out and faded away. They epitomized the hope of the 1920′s, and they were a symbol of the Crash that followed it. They were Americans in Europe and they ruined each other as fast as they ruined themselves. They crashed, and then they crashed.
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