A while back I mentioned that an essay I’d written, wherein I reveal my secret methods for punching a wolf in the face, was slated to run in an upcoming issue of an upcoming online mag called Please Don’t. Well, they’re warming up with a blog that’ll give you a sense of the stuff they like, and that will post occasional calls for submissions. The mag is on its way.

I think the aesthetic for the mag will emerge over time, but the best way I can think to describe it is as a repository of essays, on topics their authors are uniquely enthused about, regardless of timeliness. The editors are Pete Coco and Scott Stealey, a couple of tremendous writers and great weirdos in their own right.

This story is nuts. A bookseller in Waltham, Mass.—not far at all from where I grew up—has decided he’s going to sell out a local author’s entire print run of 1,000. Apparently, Jon Papernick’s new novel is out on a Canadian press, so Back Pages Books has the exclusive rights to sell it in America, until (and here’s the hope), an American publisher takes notice and buys the book. Papernick must be psyched.

If any bookstore in Canada wants a similar arrangement for Hiding Out, I’d hear you out. In fact, I dare you. Even more factually, consider that dare double-dogged.

I always liked Rod Beck, when he was pitching for the Red Sox especially, but even in his days as a dominant closer for the Giants. But I think I liked him best when he was 34, working his way back up to the majors and pitching for the Triple-A Iowa Cubs in ‘03. He lived in a trailer 159 steps from the ballpark. Fans would stop in and have a beer.

“People aren’t quite sure what to think,” Beck said. “I get some looks. Brady Anderson was in here not too long ago and he goes, ‘I hear you’re living in an RV out there.’ And I’m like, ‘Sure am.’ And he sort of stood there, looked at me and after some awkward silence said, ‘Well … that’s cool.’ “

How could you not love a guy who talks to the press about Brady Anderson’s awkward silence?

Beck died yesterday at 38. The cause of death is unknown, and I’m a little wary of finding out. The whole thing is too sad.

Here are the three most recent amusing search terms that have brought people to this blog:

“crack me up spanish”

“dollar store rip off”

“bottom boob”

I haven’t been able to read much about the Tools of Change in Publishing Conference, mostly because I find summaries of lectures to be as exciting as lectures on summaries.

Two things, however, caught my eye. One, Wired editor-in-chief Chris Anderson (he of The Long Tail bandwagon) thinks that the future of books includes advertising. That’s advertising in books. The very idea of it depresses me, and I’m glad I feel so strongly that he’s wrong. The book is maybe the only place on earth where it feels safe to venture without encountering advertising. It’s like saying that the future of home-owning is advertising on your living room walls.

On the flipside, a guy has figured out how to make paper interact with a computer (hint: it uses conductive ink), which means a book can be in print, but its boundaries can be much, much larger. It’s called the blueBook, and it looks awesome. I wrote about over at TOC, and you can read that entry here.

Just one review of mine this week, of David Silverman’s Typo, a memoir about his attempts to take over the typesetting business in America and failing galliantly. It’s a great book, and resonates with all of the bad-business-news in publishing that’s been on my mind lately. And funny enough, it’s published by Soft Skull.

You can read a condensed version of the book at Salon.