Honestly, Sometimes Even I Can’t Tell Us Apart

Ah, memories. That’s me there on the left, obviously pretty chipper about being in the company of Glen — short story writer, critic, and sequential-art blogger nonpareil; unchallenged 36th-chamber master of the Koyaanisqatsi joke and occasional collaborator; Aquaman biographer and autobiographer; boob-window watcher; faithful drinking buddy, sounding board, pal-for-life.

This snapshot is not quite a year old. I have altered it slightly in deference to Glen’s belief, shared by many of his fellow Micronesian tribesmen, that photos steal the soul. And also that this picture makes him look more like Rod Steiger than he’s prepared to deal with. I have more hair now; Glen has exactly the same amount. Still, you can see how it’d be easy to mistake one of us for the other, especially with our habit of traveling via tandem bicycle and finishing each other’s sentences all the time. (Finishing this guy’s sentences has required me to purchase a new, pocket-sized copy of S.I. Hayakawa’s Choose the Right Word, overwrite the few crumbs of French and Spanish I used to claim to know, and triple-down on my intake of nootropics courtesy of my local milkbar. I’m pretty sure the only prep Glen had to do was to watch Die Hard again.)

So that’s why I can’t get too mad about the City Paper having briefly slapped Glen’s byline on my review of Forum’s Amazons and Their Men. Honest mistake, already fixed, no hard feelings. Anyway, G-Weld’s written plenty of stuff of which I’d be only too happy to claim authorship.

This post appears on the
Washington City Paper Arts Desk.

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