Brian Kenneth Swain

Excerpt from The Curious Habits of Man There can be no greater marketing triumph than the creation and promoting of bottled water … Never mind that something like seventy percent of all bottled water comes directly and unapologetically, without being changed in any way, from municipal systems (i.e., tap water), or that bottled water is almost certainly less healthy than tap water by virtue of residing for months in plastic bottles, potentially absorbing all manner of petrochemicals that leach fro them plastic, or that while the safety and quality of municipal water is closely regulated, there are no analogous regulations at all for bottled water. All these realities notwithstanding, people the world over have, in less than a decade, ...

The Curious Habits of Man shares an amusing glimpse at life as one man contemplates many of our greatest-and smallest-questions. What is the one true secret to weight loss? What is the correct way to make a grilled cheese sandwich? Is the designated hitter rule the salvation of baseball or its undoing? Is it rational to be an optimist? And-the question that haunts us all- should toilet paper unwind over the top of the roll or from underneath? In his first collection of essays, author Brian Kenneth Swain tackles hundreds of life’s questions while exploring a vast array of subjects-from tubas to two year-olds, from field goals to child labor laws, and from high school shop class to the worst round of golf ever played. With an acerbic ...

Earl the donkey in a fit of gluttony ate all the sweet purple cactus fruit, fruit we had hoped to savor ourselves this very evening. But it is gone now for another season, like the peach that falls before the squirrel, and the fig inside which the worm burrows, warm and content. Every creature drawn to sustenance, according to its hunger or its passion. Every morsel brought forth, given meaning, in this our season of ...

Might there be, the neophyte asks, certain topics that fall outside the purview of the poet? Those which are, to put it plainly, off limits or regarded perhaps, as being in such poor taste as to be eschewed at all cost? Well, the poet responds, momentarily pondering, it seems life and death, love and loss, these are really the big four, and, as such, fair game for all. As for me, I would steer clear of anything involving smelly cheeses or animals with scales. Avoid, as well, all allusions to reality television or anything that takes place in the northernmost counties of Wisconsin. But for these, the sage opined, all else is at your disposal, just so long as you come to your desk and your pen pure of heart and with clarity of ...

I concede to being well past the apex of my life, at least as measured from time’s perspective. Closer to the end than the beginning, the poet might say. And yet, despite this uncomfortable admission, I find I still evaluate each tree I encounter, not according to any biological criteria or even from the perspective of beauty, but rather on its ability to support a tree house or to be climbed. And I wonder at the magnificent view that awaits the brave soul who makes the attempt. For while my grown-up side advises against so rash a thing, the twelve-year-old who still walks by my side knows well that looking upon a single tree from down here is a grim and pitiful thing against the boundless expanse waiting to be looked upon from ...

It was only a lamp, and an ugly one at that. Footballs, even small foam ones, bounce so unpredictably. Where’s the justice in holding a small child accountable for that? And so I wait… Of course these things always seem to happen at ten in the morning, just to make sure I have all day to ponder the nature and the measure of my penance. And so I wait… There are countries, I’m told, that have laws against psychological torture, probably even Geneva Convention guidelines. But not in this house. Here, all bets are off. All’s fair in child rearing. And so I wait… Perhaps he’ll have a good day at the office. Maybe he’ll be feeling magnanimous, forgiving. He could decide that the wait, the apprehension, is punishment ...

Ketchum, Idaho–Ernest Hemingway was found dead of a shotgun wound in the head at his home here today. His wife, Mary, said that he had killed himself accidentally while cleaning the weapon. Mr. Hemingway, whose writings won him a Nobel Prize and a Pulitzer Prize, would have been 62 years old July 21. Frank Hewitt, the Blaine County Sheriff, said after a preliminary investigation that the death “looks like an accident.” He said, “There is no evidence of foul play.” The body of the bearded, barrel-chested writer, clad in a robe and pajamas, was found by his wife in the foyer of their modern concrete house. A double-barreled, 12-gauge shotgun lay beside him with one chamber discharged. New York Times, July 3, ...

See Sally, Dick, and Jane in their pretty white house with the picket fence, Spot in his doghouse. Dad smiling as he puffs his pipe and pushes the mower. Mom taking the casserole from the oven. See all the houses without locks. See the boys and girls as they play in their yards or peddle their stingray bikes with playing cards in the spokes. See the family, sitting in front of the TV with Jeannie and Samantha, Jethro and Gilligan. All on the same three Bat-channels. See Wiley, Elmer, Bugs, and Woody on Saturday morning. See dad get out of his chair to change the channels. See the schoolchildren hide under their desks to avoid the nuclear holocaust. Hide, children, hide. See the men in their short hair fly off into the sky to walk on other ...

Take me to your leader, the alien said. I said what? He repeated it. And I said why? He said it was something he had seen in a movie we broadcast and they thought it would be swell if they greeted us in the way that we expected to be greeted. So I explained the concept of clichés and then we went out for ...

I am guessing her hair is blue. But just a guess for all I see are knuckles, white knuckles that clutch at the wheel like a drowning swimmer clings to flotsam. The left turn signal has been flashing since Charleston, thirty-seven minutes ago. It is conceivable she really is turning but is just very cautious. Or perhaps she is a perfectly sentient old woman with a grim sense of humor. My exit was fifteen minutes ago, only now I must follow her to see how long she can keep it up. This is more entertaining, more poignant than anything I was going to do. There is something real happening here, something pure and natural, and I must see it through to its rightful end. I have come to believe that she will truly turn one day. And when she does I ...