Author Archive

Getting My Bearings

Written by Jim Knipfel on February 19, 2002. Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts

It was a pleasant enough day in the midst of something that was at least calling itself "winter" for someone’s sake. Morgan and I were killing some time and strolling around the far west side, in the 20s. We don’t spend much time over there, and thought we’d see what there was to see. Turns
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Too Much Ado in Brighton Beach

Written by Jim Knipfel on February 12, 2002. Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts

Summer was nearing an end, but the heat was still holding tight to the city. Where we were, though, down by the ocean near Brighton Beach, things were a little cooler. At least the breeze off the water made it seem that way. Things were cooler still in the bar, where we’d been sitting for
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Tex Johnson Has Risen from the Grave

Written by Jim Knipfel on February 5, 2002. Posted in Posts

He won’t go away. Back in the early 60s, the pseudonymous Tex Johnson and an anonymous band of studio musicians ("the Six-Shooters") cut a country-western Christmas album called Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. The jacket was made of blue and silver foil, emblazoned with a cartoon of Rudolph pulling Santa’s sleigh through the night skies over
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The Germans Keep Asking Me About Borges

Written by Jim Knipfel on January 29, 2002. Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts

When I learned that one of my goofy books was coming out in Germany, I was tickled. I like the Germans; they’re a strange and funny people. This made itself strikingly clear as I began to hear more and more about how, exactly, the book would be presented. First off, they were changing the title.
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A Bump in the Night, then Some Weird Events

Written by Jim Knipfel on January 22, 2002. Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts

It was shortly after 1 a.m. when I heard the crash. Given the acoustics of the apartment, it was impossible to tell where, exactly, the crash had originated. Sound bounces all over the place in my apartment–especially around the bed. Even the tiny mewling sounds that followed the crash were hard to place. n My
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Revisiting My Pumpkin-Headed Self,Via 8-mm Home Movies

Written by Jim Knipfel on January 15, 2002. Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts

In the days before VCRs and long before affordable camcorders, American families had two choices when it came to preserving their memories visually. Either take a lot of snapshots, or get hold of an 8-mm home movie camera and projector. There was a time when every family, it seemed, had a boxful of 8-mm films,
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Just Trying to Help

Written by Jim Knipfel on January 8, 2002. Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts

It was a Sunday or Monday night. I don’t remember which, exactly; they’re getting harder and harder to tell apart. But it was one of the two, and I was tapping home from the subway. Using the cane, I’ll tell you, has lost some of its charm. It’s grown, over the past few years, into
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Community Bookstore’s Catherine Bohne Brings the War to Park Slope

Written by Jim Knipfel on January 8, 2002. Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts

Park Slope’s Community Bookstore has always been a quiet place. A dark, cramped, well-stocked neighborhood landmark. When the inevitable Barnes & Noble opened up a few blocks away, the independently owned bookstore not only survived, but seemed to thrive in response. More than just a simple bookstore, they sport a pleasant little cafe in the
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The Complexity of Simplicity

Written by Jim Knipfel on January 1, 2002. Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts

For some reason–more a collection of relentlessly stupid ones–many of the simplest human activities in this modern world of ours are things I find almost unbearably difficult to do. Not for any clear reason–it has nothing, for instance, to do with any physical infirmity–they’re just things I have a hard time with. Like making phone
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Sorta Telekinetic SLIpping and SLIding

Written by Jim Knipfel on December 25, 2001. Posted in Miscellaneous, Posts

A flash of memory on a morning train: A kindergarten classroom. A paper cutout of a stoplight. Circles of red, yellow and green, arranged vertically. The smell of paste. The tile floor. This was followed immediately by a deep sadness. Why? A sense of loss? Of onetime innocence? Of something too far away now ever
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