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Alex Carnevale

Features Editor
Mia Nguyen

Senior Editor
Brittany Julious

This Recording

is dedicated to the enjoyment of audio and visual stimuli. Please visit our archives where we have uncovered the true importance of nearly everything. Should you want to reach us, e-mail alex dot carnevale at gmail dot com, but don't tell the spam robots. Consider contacting us if you wish to use This Recording in your classroom or club setting. We have given several talks at local Rotarys that we feel went really well.

Pretty used to being with Gwyneth

Regrets that her mother did not smoke

Frank in all directions

Jean Cocteau and Jean Marais

Simply cannot go back to them

Roll your eyes at Samuel Beckett

John Gregory Dunne and Joan Didion

Metaphors with eyes

Life of Mary MacLane

Circle what it is you want

Not really talking about women, just Diane

Felicity's disguise

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In Which No One's Inner Plight Resembled His

Dangling Man

There is no one here who wholly understands me. To have one person with this understanding, a woman for example, that would be to have a foothold on every side, it would mean to have God.

Franz Kafka holds two major distinctions in twentieth-century life, neither of which is recognized nearly as often as it should be. By virtue of his eye-opening diaries, he was the first blogger. He was also one of the finest flakes of the twentieth century, as those diaries prove. He was terrific with excuses, finding exactly the right thing to say to avoid facing one obligation or another. Here are some of the finest excuses he made to his best friend Max Brod:

Dear Max

I am now half delighted that I am actually studying at last, and for that reason will not come to our cafe this week. I would very much like to be there, because I never study after 7 o’clock; but if I do take a little change of this kind, it disturbs my studies all day the next day. And I daren’t waste any time. So it’s better for me to read my Kugelgen in the evening, a splendid occupation for a little mind and for sleep when it comes.

Love to you


Dear Max

Now, dear fellow, I shan’t be able to go out anywhere for a bit. The Dean has been so irresponsible as to fix my finals a little earlier and as I was ashamed to be more cautious than he, I’ve made no protest.

All my love,



Dear Max

Forgive me for yesterday evening, please! I shall come to your place at five o’clock. My excuse will be a little comic, so you are quite sure to believe it.


My dear Max

I am a completely useless person, really, but nothing can be done about it. Yesterday afternoon I sent you a letter by special messenger: "Here in the tobacconist’s in the Graben I beg you to forgive me for not being able to come tonight. I have a headache, my teeth are falling out, my razor is blunt, I am an unpleasant object to look at. - Your F." And now in the evening I go and lie down on my sofa and reflect that I have made my excuses anyhow, and that there is again a little order in the world, but as I am thinking it over, I suddenly remember that I wrote Wladislaw street instead of Schalen street.

Now, please, I beg of you, be annoyed about it, and don’t speak to me any more because of it. I am utterly on the downward path, and — I can see far enough for that — I can’t help going to the dogs. Also I should love to cut myself, but as that is impossible, there is only one thing I can rejoice about, and that is that I have no pity on myself, and so I have at last become egoistic to that extent. We should celebrate achieving this height — you and I, I mean; just as a future enemy, you should celebrate it. It is late. I should like you to know that I wished you a very good night tonight.

Your Franz

My Max

I am in such a bad way that I think I can only get over it by not speaking to anyone for a week, or as long as may be necessary. From the fact that you won’t try to answer this postcard in any way, I shall see that you are fond of me.

Your Franz

In 1914, Kafka was 31. He was about to enter into the first of his unsuccessful engagements with Felice Bauer, who worked as a representative for a dictaphone company. What follows are excerpts from his diary entries during this period:

January 14 1914

Quite some time ago A's sister was told by a fortune-teller that her eldest brother was engaged and that his fiancee was deceiving him. At that time he rejected all such stories in a rage. I: "Why only at that time? It is as false today as it was then. She hasn't deceived you, has she?" He: "It's true that she hasn't, isn't it?"

March 8 1914

There is no doubt that I am hemmed in all around, though by something has certainly not yet fixed itself in my flesh, that I occasionally feel slackening, and that could be burst asunder. There are two remedies, marriage or Berlin; the second is surer, the first more immediately attractive.

w/ felice bauer March 17 1914

Sat in the room with my parents, leafed through magazines for two hours, on and off simply stared before me; in general simply waited for ten o'clock to arrive and for me to be able to go to bed.

March 27 1914

On the whole passed in much the same way.

April 8 1914

Yesterday incapable of writing even one word. Today no better. Who will save me? And the turmoil in me, deep down, scarcely visible; I am like a living lattice-work, a lattice that is solidly planted and would like to tumble down.

Today in the coffee-house with Werfel. How he looked from the distance, seated at the coffee-house table. Stooped, half-reclining even in the wooden chair, the beautiful profile of his face pressed against his chest, his face almost wheezing in its fullness (not really fat); entirely indifferent to the surroundings, impudent, and without flaw. His dangling glasses by contrast make it easier to trace the delicate outlines of his face.

May 6 1914

My parents seem to have found a beautiful apartment for F. and me; I ran around for nothing one entire beautiful afternoon. I wonder whether they will lay me in my grave too, after a life made happy by their solicitude.

May 29 1914

Tomorrow to Berlin. Is it a nervous or a real, trustworthy security that I feel? How is that possible? Is it true that if one once acquires a confidence in one's ability to write, nothing can miscarry, nothing is wholly lost, while at the same time only seldom will something rise up to a more than ordinary height? Is this because of my approaching marriage to F.? Strange condition, though not entirely unknown to me when I think back.

Dostoevsky's letter to his brother on life in prison.

June 6 1914

'Don't you want to join us?' I was recently asked by an acquaintance when he ran across me alone after midnight in a coffee-house that was already almost deserted. 'No, I don't,' I said.

July 5 1914

To have to bear and to be the cause of such suffering!


August 2 1914

Germany has declared war on Russia - Swimming in the afternoon.

August 3 1914

Alone in my sister's apartment. It is lower down than my room, it is also on a side street, hence the neighbours' loud talking below, in front of their doors. Whistling too. Otherwise complete solitude. No longed-for wife to open the door. In one month I was to have been married. The saying hurts: you've made your bed, now lie in it. You find yourself painfully pushed against the wall, apprehensively lower your eyes to see whose hand it is that pushes you, and, with a new pain in which the old is forgotten, recognize your own contorted hand holding you with a strength it never had for good work. You raise your head, again feel the first pain, again lower your gaze; this up-and-down motion of your head goes on without pause.

August 29 1914

The end of one chapter a failure; another chapter, which began beautifully, I shall hardly - or rather certainly not - be able to continue as beautifully, while at the time, during the night, I should certainly have succeeded with it. But I must not forsake myself, I am entirely alone.

August 30 1914

Cold and empty. I feel only too strongly the limits of my abilities, narrow limits, doubtless, unless I am completely inspired. And I believe that even in the grip of inspiration I am swept along only within these narrow limits, which, however, I  then no longer feel because I am being swept along. Nevertheless, within these limits there is room to live, for this reason I shall probably exploit them to a despicable degree.


October 7 1914

I have taken a week's vacation to push the novel on. Until today - it is Wednesday night, my vacation ends Monday - it has been a failure. I have written little and feebly. Even last week I was on the decline, but could not foresee that it would prove so bad. Are these three days enough to warrant the conclusion that I am unworthy of living without the office?

October 15 1914

I have lived now calmly for two months without any real contact with F. (except through correspondence with E.), have dreamed of F. as though of someone who was dead and could never live again, and now, when I am offered a chance to come near her, she is at once the center of everything again. She is probably also interfering with my work. How very much a stranger she has sometimes seemed to me these latter days when I would think of her, of all the people I had ever met the most remote; though at the same time I told myself that this was simply because F. had been closer to me than any other person, or least had been thrust so close to me by other people.

Leafed through the diary a little. Got a kind of inkling of the way a life like this is constituted.

November 12 1914

Parents who expect gratitude from their children (there are even some who insist on it) are like usurers who gladly risk their capital if only they receive interest.

December 31 1914

Have been working since August, in general not little and not badly, yet neither in the first nor in the second respect to the limit of my ability, as I should have done, especially as there is every indication (insomnia, headaches, weak heart) that my ability won't last much longer. Worked on, but did not finish: The Trial, 'Memoirs of the Kalda Railway,' 'The Village Schoolmaster', 'The Assistant Attorney', and the beginnings of various little things. Finished only 'In the Penal Colony' and a chapter of Der Verschollene, both during the two-week holiday. I don't know why I am drawing up this summary, it's not at all like me!

Franz Kafka died of complications from tuberculosis in 1924. You can find more of his diaries here and you can purchase them here.

"Slow Was My Heart" - Richard Ashcroft (mp3)

"Crazy World" - Richard Ashcroft (mp3)

"New York" - Richard Ashcroft (mp3)

I do not envy particular married couples, I simply envy all married couples together; and even when I do envy one couple only, it is the happiness of married life in general, in all its infinite variety, that I envy - the happiness to be found in any one marriage, even in the likeliest case, would probably plunge me into despair.

I don’t believe people exist whose inner plight resembles mine.



In Which We Make More From The Wallets Than We Do The Register

Walking the Earth


Pulp Fiction
dir. Quentin Tarantino
154 minutes

It is precisely right that Pulp Fiction begins and ends in a diner. Diners are places where ordinary things happen. Breakfast, small talk, “Garçon, coffee.” But one minute you’re having a Denver omelet, and the next minute somebody’s sticking a gun in your face.

Pulp Fiction is not science fiction, but it does have a sci-fi element of the uncanny. It is about big visuals and big sound, warped reality and warped morality. To watch a Tarantino movie is to be manipulated somehow, and Tarantino manipulates the viewer quite nimbly — after all, a man with a foot fetish is categorically required to convince people that certain unattractive things are attractive. Watching the film can make you believe that everyone should carry a gun, that jobs in offices are boring and not worth having, that cocaine, while dangerous, is an attractive alternative to heroin.

Real life becomes mundane when each scene is peppered with gunshots; real life becomes a space in which all the steaks are either bloody as hell or burnt to a crisp; real life is when Vincent Vega says “We should have fuckin’ shot guns” with the casual swagger of a small-town mayor.

If Seinfeld is a show about nothing then Pulp Fiction is a movie about a little bit of everything — just not in chronological order. Anyone who says Tarantino revolutionized the concept of nonlinear narrative will be beaten to death by James Joyce’s black-hatted ghost, but he took often unfriendly style of storytelling and turned it into something mainstream audiences can swallow. There is something to be said for the way the film artfully skips from Butch’s breezy “Zed’s dead, baby” line to the recapitulation of the Ezekiel 25:17 speech. Time isn’t real! Or maybe it’s real, but it doesn’t matter. “Next time we see each other it’ll be Tennessee time.” “Que hora es?” “Any time of the day is a good time for pie.” “If I’m curt with you, it’s because time is a factor.”

The storyline that is the bread of the Pulp Fiction club sandwich concerns Jules (Samuel L. Jackson) and Vincent (John Travolta), two hitmen for L.A. kingpin Marsellus Wallace who are responsible for retrieving a glowing briefcase from a handful of strangely yuppie-ish youths. Did these kids really have an appetite for Big Kahuna burgers at 7:22 in the morning? Would a Big Kahuna burger involve some sort of grilled pineapple accoutrement? Having gunned down all the mini yuppies, and having miraculously survived a hailstorm of bullets from a third, hidden mini yuppie, Jules and Vincent leave with the precious cargo only to shoot their underling Marvin in the head by accident. It is a rough day at the proverbial office.

They go to Jimmy’s (Quentin Tarantino) house, put on his nerdy collegiate clothes, scrub off all the blood and let Winston “The Wolf” Wolfe (Harvey Keitel) take care of the corpse. The Wolf must be Tarantino’s idea of a deus ex machina — he delegates tasks with grace and a remarkable lack of bullshit, knows which truck repair place can get rid of Marvin’s body (what’s left of it, anyway), and compliments Jimmy on his expensive taste in coffee. A human deus ex machina would definitely wear a tuxedo.

Jules and Vincent hand over the briefcase to Marsellus. He is pleased. There is one theory about the briefcase suggesting it contains Marsellus’ soul — the band-aid on the back of his neck marks the place through which one’s soul would apparently be sucked out by the devil. I like this theory because I don’t think he’s the only guy in Los Angeles with his soul knocking around like the eight ball on a pool table. When I first saw Pulp Fiction I was sixteen and had no imagination; I thought the glow from the briefcase signified gold. Now I see how foolish that idea was. Marsellus is a nasty dude, but no way would he appoint Jules and Vincent to gun down three young guys for mere gold. A briefcase full of gold nuggets has as much value to Marsellus Wallace as a bowl of Cheerios.

Vincent is a facile cheeseball who makes motivational speeches to himself in the bathroom (sort of like Bruce Willis when he guest-starred on Friends), but Jules is the only character who might still be in possession of his soul. He may quote a (fake) Bible passage before obliterating Marsellus’ transgressors, but he’s the one who, post bullet hailstorm, manages to find religion without sounding like he’s been hypnotized at the county fair. Something about Samuel L. Jackson’s mellifluous voice makes conversion seem utterly rational. “You’re judging this the wrong way,” Jules says to Vincent. “You don't judge shit like this based on merit. Whether or not what we experienced was an according-to-Hoyle miracle is insignificant. What is significant is I felt God's touch. God got involved.” Jules offers a reasonable solution for religious conflict: if you didn’t experience God, that’s okay; if you experienced God, understand that your experience may not be enough to convince others.

Jules finds the redemption, but Vincent gets the fall after his night with Mia Wallace (Uma Thurman). Taking the boss’ wife out should be as innocuous as a five-dollar vanilla milkshake, just not when both parties prepare by getting really high. The film doesn’t glamorize drugs — not with the shot of Mia OD’ing and looking like something out of Colson Whitehead’s Zone One — but it must be said that both characters look their best right after illicit consumption. Vincent has a great, shit-eating heroin grin, and Mia gets this unbelievably sexy gleam in her eye after doing a bump in the restaurant bathroom. Whoever runs D.A.R.E can’t prevent this kind of drug-induced self-confidence, not unless they base all their programs around the image of a vomit-covered Uma Thurman. By the way, a $5 shake in 1994 would be a $7.26 shake today.

Pulp Fiction is a lot like Marsellus Wallace’s house: cool, slick, big stereo, and you can’t find out where the intercom is. Mia and Vincent’s Twist scene has entered our cultural visual lexicon (does anyone have a better word for “visual lexicon”?) but I prefer Mia dancing solo to “Girl, You’ll Be a Woman Soon.” It is hot and awkward at the same time. Mia Wallace is more than a woman to me, and I would like to know what shade of lipstick she wears.

Butch Coolidge, around whom the third storyline revolves, is the opposite of Mia Wallace. He is not cool so much as he is menacing. He is sweaty and hypermasculine, a boxer who takes fights one at a time which must seem kind of wimpy to Butch, at least in comparison to his father and grandfather and great-grandfather, who were all war heroes fighting for America. Butch has one last match in him, and Marsellus Wallace wants to fix it so that he loses. When Butch sits and listens to Marsellus Wallace tell him that ability don’t last, you can practically see in the expression on his just-short-of-craggy face that he would rather be raped by the Gimp a thousand times than let his ass go down in the fifth.

Esmeralda Villalobos, the film’s sexy MacGuffin

The boxing match occurs off-screen but it isn’t difficult to imaging Butch killing a guy with his bare hands. Butch blows the fixed match, arranges to collect on his bets, meets up with his adorable French girlfriend at the motel and gets ready to book it for Tahiti or Bora Bora or wherever rich people go; unfortunately, the girlfriend forgot the fucking watch! The wristwatch that has been passed down through the men of his family for generations is back at home, and so are the men who want him dead.

Butch wears this watch all the time and it probably reminds him of the fact that he’s not a military hero like Grandpops, but he needs it anyway. He risks his life to get the watch back. He ends up in a sex-torture nightmare of a basement with Marsellus Wallace himself in order to get that watch back. Everyone has that watch. Everyone has a watch, or a Mia Wallace, or a gun-induced miracle. Is that what Tarantino is trying to say? That the events in life designed to bring about ruin are those that make life worth living?

Somebody, please, get this lovely young woman some blueberry pancakes

Some movies would rather the audience turn their brain off at the first sign of the opening credits. They’d rather not have people think about what might happen to their characters after the first kiss or the wedding or the heartwarming family hug. (Usually these films star Kate Hudson.) But with Pulp Fiction it is really fun to imagine what is going to happen to everyone after their mini-stories end. These characters are so sexy and repulsive and charismatic and grotesque that they merit much consideration for their futures. Is Marsellus Wallace going to contract some sort of sexual PTSD, or at least a venereal disease? Is Mia Wallace going to kick hard drugs and swan about in a swim cap for the rest of her life? Is Butch really going to enjoy Bora Bora? What if he loses his watch in the tranquil Pacific waters?

Most importantly, is Jules going to walk the earth, as he declares in the diner? The concept of walking the earth probably sounded insane to Vincent, at least in 1994. That was a time when you could get paid in cash for a little dirty work, a time before politicians and cops were felling bosses like Marsellus Wallace left and right. No one in their right mind would have wanted to walk the earth in 1994, but in 2011 “walk the earth” sounds like a better post-college plan than “move in with your parents and bartend at the local Texas Roadhouse.” The sex and the flash of the film are nice audiovisual stimuli as they occur, but the lasting impression may as well be the future Jules, toting a backpack instead of a briefcase, shoes worn out from walking the earth.

Molly O'Brien is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Burlington, Vermont. She tumbls here. She last wrote in these pages about Justin Bieber. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here.

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Elena Schilder on American Beauty

Elizabeth Gumport on Wild Things

Molly O'Brien on Pulp Fiction

Hanson O'Haver on Airheads

Alex Carnevale on Indecent Proposal

Emma Barrie on While You Were Sleeping

Jessica Ferri on The Devil's Advocate

Durga Chew-Bose on Titanic

Molly Lambert on Basic Instinct

Alex Carnevale on Singles

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In Which We Ride On God's Great Motorcycle

Love of Leather and Country


Sons of Anarchy
creator Kurt Sutter

I always wondered what happened to the British kid in Undeclared. (I assumed porn.) Then I was gchatting with Grover Norquist last year, and he was telling me about his favorite show, Sons of Anarchy. On Sons Charlie Hunnam portrays Jackson Teller, the vice president of his motorcycle gang and the practitioner of the worst American accent outside of Simon Baker. Grover bought me the show's first three seasons on DVD as a thank you present for a bunch of jokes I wrote him about Ezra Klein. That gift changed my life.

where are all the girls, did they attend West Point or something?

At base, Undeclared and Sons of Anarchy showcase essentially the same concept. Both concern groups of friends a little too overeager to explain how virulently heterosexual they are, adding up to something of a these ladies protest too much, methinks type situation. Each show concerns a counterculture not commonly exposed to the mainstream light; in the case of Undeclared the fact that college is a gigantic scam perpetuated by Fredric Jameson and Judith Butler, and in the case of Sons of Anarchy the fact that a motorcycle gang is basically an enigmatic cover story for a bunch of guys to ride on big metal phalluses.

I never understood the appeal of a motorcycle before, and I still don't. For a show concerned only with people devoted to the speedy vehicles, Sons of Anarchy hardly ever shows the members of the Sons of Anarchy Motorcycle Club Redwood Original (SAMCRO) admiring or enjoying their motorcycles. As transport, the devices are convenient because they can be ridden fast and hidden easily, but these jockeys don't seem to care much for their steeds. They're more into quietly serving out jail time and absolute monogamy.

"Do they force you to read The Daily Beast in here?"

Hunnam's Jackson Teller had a high school relationship with Tara (Mad Men's Maggie Siff) that engendered a love that never abated. Despite the fact that he turned into a drug-running, guns-abusing freak like his father, she's still attracted to his hard pecs. Even after he cheated on her with an adult film performer, she was still fine with it and raised his children without complaint, then went to her job as a hospital surgeon. And that's not all!

Listening to the British Hunnam pridefully spout the various details of the arms trade is about as believable as imagining that a University of Chicago educated doctor would ever copulate with him, but that's part of the fun of Sons of Anarchy. As the show's current season came to a close, the union has been so insanely ludicrous that the Sons of Anarchy writing team has the couple communicate only through cliché, as with this charming exchange from the penultimate episode of the season:

TARA: Tell me you love me.

JACKSON: I love you, Tara.


Do you love me?

TARA: If you make it stop I will.


I love you Jackson.

Jesus, did none of these people watch Tell Me You Love Me? Clearly not, or they would have cast Adam Scott as a rogue biker named Frederick de la Santos and I wouldn't have to watch him tongue kiss Amy Poehler anymore. Why not embark on a crossover episode, like when Urkel hit that girl on Step by Step with his car?

the fact that Ed Bundy remarried is the cherry on top of this situation

Jackson's mother Gemma Teller is played by Married... with Children's Katey Sagal as an aggressive, controlling presence in the lives of her son and husband. She reminds me of my wife Lynne if every third sentence out of Lynne's mouth was, "Don't hurt my baby." Her ongoing feud with Drea de Matteo was the highlight of the show's first season, although the fact that Drea did not get naked and that they never showed her shooting up heroin or bearing Jackson's baby somewhat lessened my interest in the storyline. 

"Tell me what you really thought of the second Hellboy."

Sagal's first serious dramatic role is a mixed bag. (I'll be scrambling my metaphors a lot in this paragraph.) Her ongoing marriage to show creator Kurt Sutter has hardly engendered goodwill among the fanbase, and including her original music was another fly in the ointment. The fact that her husband (Ron Perlman) beat the shit out of her and all she did was frown a lot constituted the final straw for me, however. Sagal actually enlists her son to kill her husband, but he has to leave him alive because of the CIA. Fortunately this storyline doesn't seem likely to go all Boardwalk Empire but I still get kind of creeped out by the way she looks at Hunnam.

just tell everyone you got into INXS there for awhile juicyEven when Sons of Anarchy gets silly, like when they debuted Tom Arnold as a wacky pornographer, the show usually redeems itself. There are actually many moments when Sons of Anarchy crosses conventional lines, such as when valued club member Juice tried to hang himself from a tree with a steel chain. You don't often see a suicide attempt on cable television these days, although god knows the British host of The X Factor should give it a shot. Also, there should be a specific viewer warning for having to see Ron Perlman's exposed belly.

To join the Sons of Anarchy, a member has to get a back tattoo. If they leave the group, they have to get it inked over or removed. I believe the Church of Scientology and the Heritage Foundation have a similar policy. The most common method of leaving the SoA is by death, and this season's death march has already claimed club founder Piney (William Lucking, not that it matters now). Ron Perlman shot him in the chest with a shotgun because he had an incriminating letter, setting up the weathered veteran as the show's biggest heel.

Also on the death list was poor Herman (The Shield's Kenneth Johnson) whose main crime was being cast on the doomed NBC version of Prime Suspect. Most of The Shield, Deadwood and Oz have taken their own place in Sons of Anarchy; you'd be surprised to know how few actors there actually are in the world, maybe 600 total not including Tom Cruise or his wives. They get thawed out of cold sleep every Tuesday.

get it????

Last night the show's many concurrent storylines converged in a not-so shocking season finale. When we had last left club president Clay Morrow (Ron Perlman), he was lying motionless in a hospital bed after being shot in the stomach by Piney's son Opie (Ryan Hurst). Instead of actually having the balls to kill off the most famous actor on their show, Sons of Anarchy creator/actor Kurt Sutter (below as incarcerated member Otto Delaney) chickened out and left Clay alive.

Jackson Teller had long calculated a plan to leave his club in the dust, move to Portland and start up a bed & breakfast with his wife. Instead, in the season's climactic finale scene, he ascended to the presidency of his little club. He explained the change of heart by saying that it would be one thing to simply abandon his club, but another to destroy it completely. I sympathized with him for the first time then because it's the same way I feel about having to watch the second season of Game of Thrones. Then again, how could it be as bad as A Dance With Dragons?

Jackson's tough decision is the exact same as Kurt Sutter's. When you make a beautiful piece of art, the second hardest thing to do is to leave it behind entirely like Larry David and Seinfeld, but the most painful thing to do is turn it into something unrecognizable. Sons of Anarchy lost its way a little bit this year by not changing enough in seasons past. Any character, no matter how finely drawn, becomes stale after we see them in identical situations over and over again. Consciousness change through repetition is only another myth perpetrated by the American political process.

Dick Cheney is the senior contributor to This Recording. He last wrote in these pages about The Walking Dead and Boardwalk Empire. You can find an archive of his writing on This Recording here.

"Honey Girl" - Jolie Holland (mp3)

"Little Birds" - Jolie Holland (mp3)

"The Devil's Sake" - Jolie Holland (mp3)