Gary Coleman Watch 2006

A few weeks ago, in a glucose slump, I took Son to Sonic Burger. It was a place we could agree on. I let him come up into the front seat (the car was parked; it's not like I'm Britney) to eat.
As we were eating, and I was lamenting the general lack of Ketchup (Sonic Burger is decidedly anti-Ketchup), I looked up to see a short African-American man driving a blue VW Bug through the drive-through. My first thought was, "That guy's not old enough to drive!" My second thought was "That's Gary Coleman!" He had pulled his car forward in the drive-through and was having an animated conversation with the teenage boy who had brought him his food. The boy walked away. The young blonde sitting next to Gary rubbed the back of his neck while he gestured wildly and generally gave off an angry vibe. It was busy at Sonic Burger, so Gary was forced to sit in his car with the blonde rubbing his neck, while the two teenage boys who seemed to be running the joint dashed about attending to the other customers. Five or ten minutes later, the teenage boy returned to Gary's window holding what can only be described as an astounding amount of ketchup packets in one hand. He shoved these through Gary's window. Gary gesticulated and shouted. The teenage boy walked away. Gary pulled forward to the garbage can and inserted an unidentifiable object into it. He drove away.
I was about 75% sure it was Gary Coleman until I told Otter Butt this story. She said she recently heard that he had moved to Provo. So now I'm about 95% sure.
Welcome to the Promised Land, Gary!

Running: Why?

The other night while talking with my Younger Sister, I was trying to explain the mysterious allure of running. "I hate running!" she said. "I used to hate it," I answered. "And now I don't love it, I'm not even sure I like it, but I don't dislike it."
What is this dysfunctional and yet healthy relationship I have with running? Why can't I love it?
I'm not quite sure, but while I was running on Wednesday, I did think of some reasons why I run. I do it, but I don't always enjoy it. Do you see my dilemma? Not all of the reasons are directly related to running, by the way.

1. Because of the anxious, nervy, (pre-drug?) rush I get while lacing up my shoes.
2. Because I can buy any song (any!) on I-Tunes, load it on my I-Pod and be listening to it, while I run, just moments later.
3. Because making Running Playlists makes running that much more fun.
4. Because of the 1-2-3 punch of my three new songs! ("My Whole Life" Bif Naked;"Soul Meets Body" Death Cab for Cutie; "Pretty Vegas" the new INXS. In that order).
5. Because "Que Ondo Guero" is fun to run to. (Thanks to Sleepy E for Beck! I love Beck!)
6. Because running gives me another excuse to buy stuff (new mesh hat: $16; three pair of cushy, cool-max running socks: $23; having new running gear: Priceless).
7. Because when I finally reach the dark strip of shade on the North side of Liberty Park, I feel an almost pure sense of gratitude.
8. Because of the smell of lilacs on McClelland.
9. Because my resting heart rate is 66.
10. Because, having run, I feel I can do and eat almost anything without guilt.
11. Because.

Nebraska: A Photo Essay

Here is what is Nebraska has over Utah: clouds. And weather. Weather is a big deal in Nebraska. Here are some photo examples of the lovely clouds spotted during my recent trip to Nebraska. Glad to be back.





 

My (so-called) Fantasy Life

I turned my grades in! I finished a textbook review! I wrote comments on my students' portfolios! I took the glass recycling to the glass recycling place! I remembered to put out the garbage last night!

I am just proving to myself that I can, in fact, manage without Middlebrow.
He called and emailed, by the way, to let me know he is still alive (wheew!) and that Moscow was crazy and that he was tired and he misses us. And by us, I'm sure he means all of you, out there, in the blogging universe.

In other news, I'm kicking some Fantasy Idol ass. I've picked all the losers for the last four weeks. If only my real life were as easy as Fantasy Idol. But there's still no way I'm going to win that trip to LA. Which is too bad, because I'm sure Chris would like to meet me.

Son and I are off to Nebraska to visit his friend (same age) and my friend, who just had twins. I plan on holding the twins, and doing nothing for a week. Sounds like the perfect way to cap off the semester.

Shopgirl, The Movie

Last night Middlebrow and I watched "Shopgirl." I read the book last year (on the plane to Milwaukee, actually). When I read the book, it felt like an outline, or a rough summary. Too much of it was exposition, too little in scene. So it seemed natural that the book would become a movie, almost like it was written to become a movie. (So why write a novella? Because you are Steve Martin, and you can).

I liked the movie, and I think it did a good job of conveying the creepiness of Ray Porter. He was creepy and charming at the same time. One thing I think the movie did a better job of than the book was communicating (visually) the ways in which Ray objectified and manipulated Mirabelle, how he marionetted (is that a word?) her. But she let him. Because it was better than being alone.

The flaw in the movie, though not huge, was the voiceover. The book has a narrator, but it is not Ray Porter. The narrator comments on the things Ray does wrong, where he fails. The voice over "narrator" (Ray) does this too, but in the movie it has the feeling of retrospective realization. In the book, it's more of an omniscient voice that is more sympathetic to Mirabelle.

I cried at the end, though now I don't know why. I think it might be because Mirabelle had moved so far beyond Ray, and Ray still seemed stuck. And he was never right for her in the first place. And she ended up with Jeremy, which was great.

I think my favorite scene in the movie is when Jeremy calls Mirabelle from the road and, reading from a self-help book, leaves a message on the answering machine that says, "I think I may have objectified you." It was funny, but touching too.

I worry, though, that Jeremy's financial success may make the "moral" of the movie something like, when you are self-actualized you will have emotional and financial success. I know Suze Orman would like this. But ultimately I think the movie is about Mirabelle, although Ray thinks it's about him. Jeremy, however, always knows it's about Mirabelle. (I want to see the Mirabelle font.)

My friend, who should know, told me the book was based on real events in Steve Martin's life. The book is dedicated "to Allyson." Hmm.

Some last thoughts: I'm a little in love with Clare Danes and Jason Schwartman. In that order. Steve Martin has aged well, but he still shouldn't have played Ray. I want Middlebrow to take me to Armani to get a fitted dress. But, barring that, I'll settle for some new shoes. (But not cruel shoes!!!)

Kindergarten Registration

Today I registered Son for the neighborhood Kindergarten. This is our back-up back-up plan, given that the back-up plan (ELP) fell through (apparently Son is not "gifted" or at least not Technically Gifted, only Mildy Smart or just Not Incredibly Dumb). I'm not bitter, but Son has not even started school yet, and already I'm jaded about standarized testing. I can't wait until I have to get him a Life Coach when he's a Freshman in High School so that he can get into a Really Good College.
Anyway, it was the standard Elementary School Auditorium affair, except every person (except me and one other woman) had Other Children besides the Kindergartener, most of whom needed to cry and scream while we, The Adults, were supposed to be listening to The Speakers, most of whom were unnecessary, except, perhaps, the School Nurse, who informed us in exactly what ways our children could/could not be drugged during school hours.
My favorite, of course, was the PTA President, who announced that she had decided that "there needs to be a law that everyone who has a student in Kindergarten also needs to have a student in High School at the same time" in order to fully appreciate the joy of the Kindergartener. I wanted to leap up and hurt her. But I prefer Otterbutt's response (I already told her this story), "Where do I send the condoms?"
Son really wants to go to this school now, because one of his best buddies from preschool is going there. And I have to admit, I love the fact that it took us about 10 minutes to walk there. But it was just plain depressing, and I don't mean the architecture. Where were all my neighbors?
Oh yeah, their kids all go to private school.
And so it goes.

post-script: The nice parent volunteer from the Open Classroom called me this evening to let me know that Son has, in fact, been admitted to their Kindergarten and will be in afternoon Kindergarten. This is actually good for us, as it is longer and only four days a week. None of the ruse of half-day half-day Fridays, which is like, one hour.

So the story has a happy ending, for us. What about those kids trapped in that school with that crazy PTA president? I worry for their souls.

Why Be Bitter? A Multiple Choice Test

1. Why Be Bitter?

a) Because a Harvard student got paid $500,000 for plagiarized ethnic chick-lit?

b) because stealing is the new mode of invention?

c) Because I, under achiever, can't write or steal the same?

d) Because students who have attended class only sporadically now appear, proclaiming, "I need to get an "A"?

e) Because students who have plagiarized yell, "It's not fair"?(talk to Middlebrow about this)

f) Because next week, we won't remember why we felt so bitter?

g) All of the above?

A Night on the Town

Dr. OtterButt and I found ourselves out and about last evening. We began on the patio at Green Street (because there is a patio, and mixed drinks) with Thirty-One Flavors and company. The story about laser hair removal was the funniest thing I've heard in ages. Check over at her blog. She promised to post an update.
OtterButt and I then mosied over to the New Yorker. But first we stopped in at the Oyster Bar for food. After two drinks at GS, we need to rebalance our blood sugar. We began with the fabulous grilled Ahi, which was served with some kind of slaw, followed by New Zealand cockles. We drank some Shiraz and a lot of water. The Ahi was the best food of the evening.
We then went down to the New Yorker, where we had one drink. But mine was the best drink of the evening, a Pomegrante Mojito. What is such a drink? A little slice of heaven. The traditional Mojito (rum, lime, fresh mint) with Pomegrante juice. Delicious!
Then we girl-napped Sylvia and headed over to the Paris for Pomme Frite, red wine, and the Mushroom Tarine (?). All good.
All in all, it was a fabulous evening.

Banner Day at the Middle-Write Household

Yesterday we had some major milestones at our house.
To wit:

1. Son rode his bicycle without training wheels for the first time. I let go and he rode down the street. Just like that. He was laughing hysterically and saying "I'm going so fast!"
2. Son had his first guitar lesson. His teacher, Peter, is great. He made Son laugh. Son was silent during most of it. He told me before he wanted me to go in with him because "I'm kinda nervous." But he did great. Now we have to see if he'll really practice, or if it's just a lark.
3. Middlebrow got up on the roof, despite his fear of heights (I could barely go up the ladder to hand him a tool. Let's hear it for effete sissy girls!). As he said, his cheapness helped him overcome his fear. Let's hear it for cheapness!
4. I signed up as an e2 citizen. You can too! Just click that link. It's fun! It's free! And you get some gifts. Plus you can find out your carbon footprint, which is interesting. Then you commit to do at least five things to be more environmentally friendly. I think I signed up for 20. Some of them are: recycle glass, ride public transportation more, ride my bike to work at least two times a week, wash clothes only in cold water, use a swamp cooler, put more in the recycle bin than the trash can. There were others that I'm forgetting.
5. Visited this Eat Wild! website. Through this website you can find local ranchers who sell grass fed beef. Anyone want to split a quarter? Middlebrow and I are thinking of buying a freezer. Where will we put it?

That's it. I also want to do Community Supported Agriculture this summer. Can anyone refer me? We did Borski one summer, but would like to try a different farmer.

Be green!

My Son: The Rockstar

Son has recently rediscovered the guitar in the basement. In my opinion this is a result of our viewing of American Idol. Last night he said, "I can't sleep! I'm thinking about rockstars!"

I had to help him write a note that said "Tomorrow, I play guitar."

When he still wouldn't go to sleep, we said we'd have to put the guitar in the living room. Son said, "You're going to ruin my band!"

Some sample lyrics:
You're a wreck of a wife
Chase the theives and out run them, out run them


Son is well on his way to super stardom. His plans for the band include the upright bass, three guitars, drums, and, of course, the flute.

Pocatello: The Photos

We made the trek up North this weekend for the Rocky Mountain Writers Festival in Pocatello. Will, the owner of the Walrus & Carpenter Bookshop invited me to come up and read. More on that later, maybe. The highlights of the trip are covered below. Also, we ate at Buddy's. No photos of that, you're just going to have to trust me.
One of the best things about Grandpa's house is the tractor. What are the others? Unlimited supplies of wine and tequila, dogs. I'm sure there are others.










Here is Son with Middlebrow and Fireman Pat. Who is Fireman Pat? He's a friend of my high school friend Jared. Who is Jared? See below.











This is Jared. He works for the UN when he's not taking the winter off to ski at Pebble Creek. He used to sit in front of me at Highland High School. We had the same home room. I had a crush on him for awhile. I haven't seen him in about six or seven years. In the meantime, he's been around the world. Last stop, Belarus. Apparently the elections were a sham. Who knew? Jared.






Here is Son and Friend in the cab of the firetruck. What firetruck you might ask? Something about the way Blogger is uploading the photos will make this a Momento-esque post. For the answers to all your questions, see below.

According to some, this was the highlight of our visit to Pocatello: our private tour of the Pocatello Fire Department led by none other than Fireman Pat. Who is Fireman Pat? See above. Confused yet?

Fireman Pat is a friend of Jared's, a fireman, and also an HHS grad. He offered to take the boys on a tour of the Fire Station. What else do boys like? Well, tractors. And that's about it.

I may or may not have gone out on a date with Pat when he was not a fireman, but rather worked at a bar in Pocatello. He denies it, but I think it might have been him. I don't really remember either, which says something about my memory.

Sylvia and I both read at the Rocky Mountain Writers Festival. Each reader was supposed to read for 15 minutes, but you know how that goes. I compensated by reading for about 4. I don't want to go to any more readings for a long time.

All in all the visit to Poky was lovely. Except for the 15 minute run in a blizzard. Sylvia said it was the worst run of her life. I'll go one further: it was the worst 15 minutes of my life. But then there was a hot shower.

Also: had a gyro at Tom's. Yum! I love me some Pocatello food. Really. There's nothing like it.

It's all about The Idol

Recently, I have been distracted from my true purpose in life: viewing The Idol. Last week, I had a flash of what it's really all about. After witnessing Chris's amazing performance of "Walk the Line," I actually felt (really!) that if I had not seen it, I would be less of a human being.
Now, I know what you're thinking, how can "American Idol" be this good? I don't know. I really don't. All I can say is, it IS this good. And if you're not watching, you're not just missing out on some really amazing musical performances, you're missing out on some life changing experiences.
I know that you all will think I'm crazy, but I am being totally serious. I loved Chris's performance and I think Paris has the best voice in, well, a long time.
Here are my predictions for the bottom three this week: Bucky (again), Lisa (again), and. . . Kelly. It's only a matter of time before the charm of her blondeness and stupidity wear off. But I think Bucky will go. He has to. Son will be sad. Bucky is his favorite.

Finally, the last thing I'll say about AWP

On Saturday, I went to a panel about blogging. One of the questions posed was whether blogs were the 21st Century salons. The panel, mostly men, talked, etc, blah blah blah. But one guy, I forget who, said that women weren't blogging as much as men.
Say what?
I made the comment that women ARE blogging just as much as men but that, in general, maybe women's blogs didn't maintain that (artificial) divide between professional and personal. I pointed out that on many women's blogs there were discussions of writing, publishing, BIG IDEAS, but that they weren't separated from the entries about children and what I made for dinner.
So, next year I'm going to propose a panel about women and blogs and genre. Do we write differently when we blog? Is blogging a new genre, distinct from other non-fiction? Is there a gender gap in how men and women approach blogs? Is there, or should there be a public/private split that reflects the split between the professional and the personal?

I met some great women, including Terribe Mother (see A Blog of Her Own to the right). I look forward to thinking about this as I read women's blogs.

So, women bloggers, what do YOU think about the questions posed above?

Language vs. Plot: The AWP Smackdown! (warning: graphic content!)

Friday I went to a panel entitled "Revealing Words: Fiction and the Event of Language" with four FC2 authors. The description included "novels are imagined as composed primarily of characters and actions, only secondarily of diction, syntax, rhythm, metaphors, sounds. Why? This panel. . .addresses the relation of fiction to its verbal medium, and asks how stories 'reveal' their words. Is formally experimental writing an attempt to disclose the importance of fiction's language? Is there a narrative equivalent of language poetry?"

Sounds good, right? Right up my alley. I won't name the panelists, as I may, in the course of this post, insult them. But I respect them all as writers and thinkers, it's just. . .well, I'll get to that.

The first woman who spoke looked hauntingly like Aimee Mann. She cited some strong influences on her writing and thinking: Virginia Woolf (yes!), Gertrude Stein (yes!), Margarite Duras (okay, maybe), and Kathy Acker. Hmm. It may be unpopular to say, especially among "experimental" writers (whatever that means) but I'm not a huge fan of Kathy Acker. I mean, I see what she was doing, but she's impossible to read, and by read I mean comprehend, understand, enjoy. Is a collection of words on a page a "story"? I don't mean to be a genre fascist (and those of you who know me, know that I'm the opposite), but if there is a narrative equivalent of language poetry, doesn't it have to be narrative? And if it's not, isn't it just language poetry? Why make a separate category?

Anyway, she went on to say some provocative things, many of them seemed (to me) to be merely provocative, such as "Language should not be made to suck the dick of plot." (It's not an exact quotation, but close. ) And "Women are closer to language let loose. But they don't necessarily know it."

Okay. I like Helene Cixous, I may even love her writing, but as a feminist theorist, she's a bit sketchy. I mean, yes, I'm a woman, I have a vagina, does that make me more "receptive"? I thought experimental writers were supposed to be skeptical of metaphor. Then why do they all want to make the woman's body a metaphor for writing? I realize that many of the French theorists are not being metaphorical when they say we should "write the body." But really.

This woman panelist went on to talk about how language and event (I think that was her word) behave as lovers. But language in this scenario was definitely the woman, the receiver. I mean, if plot has a dick, language has to have an orifice, right? And is sucking dick always bad? Many heterosexual women and gay men would say no. Maybe we (language) like to give plot head. Maybe it's enjoyable.

Did I mention that Alvin Greenberg, nice, poems about dogs, married to Janet Holmes, was sitting next to me? He did laugh, quietly, at the language/plot comment. But as soon as the panel was over he hightailed it out of there. So I didn't have to make eye contact with him, which was good.

The other panelists were less provocative. I have to say my favorite comment of the panel was when a Male Writer compared the commercialization of publishing to McDonalds. He said mainstream novels were no different from the "death patties" that McD's is peddling. I agree.

Many of the panelists lamented the commercialization of publishing. They are selling products, not art. True. They also had me on the use of the term "experimental." Almost meaningless.

R.M. Berry, one of the editors of FC2, gave a great, humorous talk on ethics. Very smart.

An audience member questioned the homogeny of the "experimental" writers. This sub-culture becomes its own group that then enforces certain norms on its members. As an example, he cited hip people who all wear black, drink espresso, and listen to the same music. The Female Writer said there is a difference between forming tribes, and what he was talking about. I agree. But I also think it's interesting that the "norms" he cited were all products, and what the panelists were talking about were really ideas. I agree that sub-cultures can become just as oppressive as the mainstream. But what if the organizing principle is experimentation? I think, sometimes, there can be certain kinds of expectations of what constitutes "experimental." But in theory isn't experimentation itself a norm? And, as such, can't it be an inclusive rather than exclusive norm? More on this in a later post.

Another audience member asked for recommendations of experimental novels. They named some I recognized, Ben Marcus, for example. Also Carol Maso's Ava. But some of their recommendations begged the question, what is a novel? If they are using the term to include any longer book that uses words, doesn't the term itself become meaningless? Again, I'm no genre fascist, but if they are using the word so broadly, doesn't it cease to mean anything? I don't think anything Ben Marcus has written can be, even loosely, interpreted as a "novel." Maybe we need to talk about novels as historical documents, not in terms of form. But if we do talk about novels formally, don't we need to set out the terms of what we mean? Does a novel have to have characters? Does it have to have "plot"? If we are going to conceive of novel broadly, can't we also have a broad concept of plot? Can't interesting writing have both?

And here, I come back to the question posed by Audience Member #1. Is our tribe making excluding some writers because of simplistic reasons, reasons just as simplistic as the exclusion of other writers (presumably ourselves) from mainstream publishing on the basis of the ambiguous meaning of "experimental"?

Which brings me to my final point: I don't want to read writing that focuses on EITHER plot or language. I want both. I'm demanding. What's wrong with that?

AWP Austin: Part the Second, being a shorter narrative of the next day

On Thursday, the first full day of the conference, I planned nothing until my panel was over. Sylvia and I met up with Margot, a friend from Utah who now lives too far away, in a mid-western state. It was great!! to see her. We went to the bookfair, where we proceeded to run into more friends, HighTouchMegaStore, a friend from Utah who now lives in Vegas, VP Jen, Otterbutt, who was happily staffing her lit-mag table, and we made some new friends.

We returned to the hotel for much need caffeine and to meet with my panel peeps. Luckily we ran into Nick Flynn again, and while I was talking to him Emily, from the Tin House conference, showed up. She knows him AND she was on my panel. Then the others showed up and we went up to the panel room. The panel was fine, just what I expected. Afterwards, Sylvia went off to do something, and I had to get some food.

I wandered 6th street alone. I wanted a salad, but I was not optimistic. I stumbled on a Thai-Vietnamese place, so I went in. HighTouchMegaStore was lunching there, so I joined her. We had a great lunch and great chit-chat. We wandered back to the hotel, where we parted. I think she was a good girl and went to some panels. I went up to look at the pool, then I changed into my suit and went back to the pool. It was great, an eighth floor affair with free citrus water, but windy conditions. I swam, sat in the hot tub, swam and then returned to my room.

Had dinner with Felicia, Bert, the adorable Macy, and Margot. The food was so-so. The margarita was pretty good. It was fun.

Here I must pause to say I love the AWP "hosted reception." What this means is cash bar and free Hors d'Oeuvres. What does cash bar mean? The "host" has drink tickets, which they will gladly give you. Thursday night we made it to the University of Utah and University of Houston affairs. The Houston one was packed. This is where I saw Mark Doty and his boyfriend (hot!), Tony Hoagland, and various others. At the Utah one, I reunited with several grad students who moved on in my first years in the program, to various jobs around the country. Former Graduate Secretary Karl showed up with pics of his cute daughter. Sig, whose first book just came out, was there. All in all, it was big fun.

VP Jennifer and I went to the Walter Mosley keynote, which was great. I bought Devil in a Blue Dress (just finished it. good! worth reading!) and had him sign it. The talk was perfect. As Jennifer said, it was "shapely." He is a good speaker.

What happened next? I don't recall, so it must have been good. Maybe we had more drinks or something. I think I went back to the room thinking "American Idol" might be on, but it wasn't, so I watched some "Law and Order" of one kind or another. As usual, it takes me years to fall asleep. I am tired, very tired, and my blood sugar is all messed up due to alcohol, etc. Sigh.

AWP Austin: Part the First

I returned this morning from the balmy atmosphere of Austin, Texas. I am tired (please read with Texas accent, as in tai'rd) and can barely keep my eyes open, so this will have to serve as the first of several posts in which the exploits of Dr. Write are reported, if not as fact, well then, as certainly a version of truth, however distorted by wine, dirty martinis, and too much sun.

We had our first "look! there's a writer!" moment in the Salt Lake City airport, when I spotted Lance Larsen and his wife waiting to board the same flight we were on. We caught up with them on the layover in Phoenix, and chatted in line. Luckily we were not seated near them so they didn't have to see the wine debauch that resulted from high altitudes, too little dinner, and an overly generous stewardess (they are a dying breed, aren't they? and I nearly made fun of her hair.). We shared a cab with them after the flight to the downtown Hilton.

Sylvia sat up front with the African cab driver, while he spouted conspiracy theories about the origin of AIDS, and some economic/politics that I'm sure only Sylvia could follow. I sat in back with Lance & Jacqui. We talked about documentary film.

We pulled up at the Hilton and instantly saw Nick Flynn. After kisses and greetings all around, we finally actually entered the hotel and checked in. Our room was great, beautiful, wonderful, but we needed some french fries. Didn't we?

We went down to the bar, which was full but not packed. Sadly, they did not have fries on their appetizer menu, so we started to leave. But wait! First we had to greet Janet Holmes, who will be coming to Writers at Work this summer as the editor of ahsahta press. She was as lovely as I remembered her, and I got to meet her husband, Alvin Greenberg (who will appear again in a later installment of this narrative). I loved some of his poems, and he turned out to be a very sweet guy. What a great couple. We groused about a certain bitter poetry contest person who shall remain nameless, and talked about Dan Beachy-Quick's book, published by ahsahta. A bold initial foray into conference culture.

We left the hotel and wandered the famous 6th street until we found a bar. We had fries, and chips, salsa, and guac, and two of the hugest ice waters I've ever seen. It was great to see a city with a vibrant night life that included people of all ages and ethnic origins, and at 11 o'clock at night. But they were just getting started! We turned in for the night, considering our first outing in the city of Austin a success.

Off ta Austin

Tomorrow I am leaving for what I consider to be a vacation. Between pool-time and happy hour, I hope to do some Famous Writer gawking, attend some panels, hob-nob, see some people I've forgotten, and some Old Friends who are not so old.
I also hope to see a little live music, go to a dive bar, and maybe, while I'm not looking, network. Did I mention that I hope to at least see Denis Johnson and Tim O'Brien, and maybe get a free drink or two at one of those fancy after-reading parties? Last year I fell into a serious Jack & Ginger habit and became, for a moment, The "Scare Quote" Stalker. Let's hope it doesn't happen again.
Who should I look for in Austin? Who do you want me accidently bump into, spilling my drink, and burning my image into his/her mind forever?
Let me know and I'll see what I can do.

My Ten Cents

Top Ten Reasons "Brokeback Mountain" Should Have Won Best Picture

1. Jake Gyllenhal (that's reason enough on its own. Don't believe me? See "Donny Darko")
2. The contrast between emotional desolation and the painful beauty of the landscape
3. "I wish I could quit you" has already become part of our cultural vocabulary
4. It's based on a short story! C'mon people!
5. Alberta = Wyoming. It's international!
6. It's subtler than a sledgehammer to the cranium
7. Heath Ledger
8. Ang Lee (let's hear it for the guy who said "gay mens and women")
9. The haunting score
10. From now on, men will not be able to go fishing with their buddies without their wives raising an eyebrow

There's Something About A Cosmo

I feel like, if not a good teacher, a good muse.
See susansinclair's extraordinary Cosmo poem, inspired by my last post, and, more importantly, Ogden Nash.
Bravo, Susan!

Good Rhymes

I'm teaching formal poetry this week (and next!) to my Creative Writing students. Of course, we always pause during this time to discuss rhyme and rhyme schemes. I try to avoid saying "trochee" of course, but someone always brings that up as well.
So what I have now is a question: What is one (or more) of your favorite rhymes?
Mine? Thanks for asking.

"But O ye lords of ladies intellectual,
Inform us truly have they not henpecked you all?" (Lord Byron, Don Juan)

I also like A Drink with Something In It by Ogden Nash.

There's something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant.
There's something about a Martini,
I wish that I had one at present.
There's something about a Martini,
'ere the dining and dancing begin.
To tell you the truth
It's not the vermouth,
I think that perhaps it's the gin.

I think I hear a Dirty Martini calling my name. I look forward to your memorable rhymes.

Junky

This Saturday, when the sun was shining, I went to buy some new running shoes. The salesman had me run across some special pad, and then I got to see a heat image of my foot. I thought I would have some big time foot issues, but as it turns out, I'm "neutral." So I tried on maybe six or eight pairs of shoes, but settled on the Mizuno because they fit perfectly. Turns out also, my left foot is a full size smaller than my right. I'm a freak!
When I was trying on maybe my fourth or fifth pair, my heart started racing and I got a little shaky. "I feel like a drug addict," I said to the salesman. He just smiled. He'd obviously seen and heard it all before. I felt like I was making my connection, spending my hard earned money for a jones.
But hey, at least it's healthy.
For now.

The Cut Ups by William S. Burroughs

I was living in Seattle in 1991, a recent graduate from the University of Oregon. Patty, my friend, and I were living in a one-bedroom apartment on Capitol Hill. I believe it was on Summit Avenue, you know, just down the hill from that Safeway on Broadway.
One Friday night, we went to the showing of a few short films by William S. Burroughs. This was around the time of "Naked Lunch" and Burroughs was enjoying a resurgence of popularity. The films were showing in downtown Seattle, on Pine Street, I think, at a divey bar. We took the bus there, and, once there, got two mugs of Pabst at the bar before settling in to the "theater."
The theater was a back room of the bar, with big red booths.
Before we were allowed to watch the movie, however, we were subjected to a poem by Steven Jesse Bernstein. Not read by him, of course, as he was in jail or had been injured or something (he actually may have just died!). The person who read it, wearing his "poet" uniform, was trying to raise money to publish some of Berstein's poems. This poem was called "How I Met My Present Wife" and it involved some lewd acts I won't subject you to, but to suffice it to say that the poem involved Nixon's dead body, and there were several references to flatulence.
The poem was bad enough, but worse still were the audience members giving him the serious poetry nod and doing that "hmm"ing thing that drives me nuts. As I was suffering through this torture, I looked around and realized that all the doors, including the one we had entered through, were marked with little signs that said "This is NOT an exit."
Finally the movies started. I can't remember how many there were, maybe three, but one was "The Cut Ups." It involved a light machine, a man dressed as a doctor, and Burroughs intoning, over and over, "Does it seem to be persisting?"
For many months afterward, this was a little joke we had. If we were bored, or if a certain moment outlasted its entertainment value, Patty would turn to me and ask, in Burroughs' voice, "Does it seem to be persisting?"

Sugarhouse Curry

I must be crazy! I spent upwards of three hours cooking yesterday. I'm not sure why. I think when I woke up in the morning and saw the world covered in snow, the only thing that sounded right was Dal. So I made a masur dal (on left of plate, with cilantro). And then, (heading clockwise around the plate), Thoran, or Stir-Fried Shrimp, Kerala style. Below that is a homemade mango chutney, and to the right, Aloo Fulkoffi Torkarri (potato and cauliflower curry). All this cooking took place in stages, but still. The whole thing seems ridiculous. But won't, later, when we take out the leftovers and have our second of three meals from this one flurry of cooking. Maybe I'm not so crazy after all. (I hope my food photography catches up with my cooking. Soon.)

Conversations with Son

Perhaps it is his impending birthday (the big five), but Son has begun considering the practical aspects of existence lately.

Son: Mom, do I have to have a job?
Me: Well, most adults have jobs because they have to pay for things, like rent and food.
Son: Why don't some people have jobs?
Me: Well, sometimes people can't find jobs, or they quit their jobs, or they aren't working for other reasons.
Son: What's another possibility?

(later, when I was tucking him in bed)

Son: Mom, when I'm older, I might have to quit my job.
Me: Why?
Son: I might, I might.

and

Son: When I'm a pilot, I'm going to have a mustache, because it makes you look like a real pilot, like on the cartoons.

R U 2 Cool?

Recent inquiries from certain quarters (who shall remain nameless) have converged with chronological events (the imminent approach of my 20th high school reunion) to make me pause and consider my status in high school. Was I cool then? Am I cool now?
I think the answer to both questions has to be No.
As proof, I offer the following anecdotes.

1. In high school, I was on the debate team. I debated. With my sister.
2. I had a certain army green jumpsuit that I wore with a scarf that was white with black polka dots in my hair. I used a curling iron to make my hair look like Madonna's.
3. I had a red shirt with big black polka dots and puffy shoulders/sleeves that I wore with black knickers.
4. I never had a boyfriend until my senior year (was it because of the knickers?).
5. If I went to a dance, it was with my gay male friend. Or a friend who was a guy. Or I went with my female friends who also didn't have dates and we wore trench coats and we "crashed" the dance.
6. The height of fun on Friday night was to go to JB's and eat french fries. Sometimes we got gravy with them.
7. At one point, I had an asymmetrical hair cut and I wore eye shadow that went off my eyelids and down onto my face and ended in a colored star. A colored star.
8. I had some earrings (my favorite) that were plastic square comic frames.
9. I was threatened in the bathroom by a girl who scowled at me and said, "Are you from California?" (this was not a complement).
10. I was in the National Honor Society.
11. I was editor of my high school newspaper (The Rampage).
12. Just today, a boy at Wild Oats called me "Ma'am."
13. I have only purchased two new CDs in the past year.
14. My idea of a fun Friday night is to put on my pajamas.
15. I don't recognize the name of most popular music groups.
16. I screamed at my son because he didn't like the letters I made for his birthday poster. (I ask you, is this cool?)
17. If something's popular, I automatically dislike it on principle.
18. My sophomore year of high school, a guy who liked me made out with my best friend from junior high after I left a party because I had to go home and type up my speech for the Debate Tournament the next day.
19. My revenge? I left a McDonald's apple pie in her mailbox.
20. The one time I did go to a dance with a boy who liked me, I asked him to take me home early. He told someone that the best thing about the date was that I had ordered the cheapest thing on the menu.
21. I was once stuck over night in a pickup with a guy who liked me because he wanted to take me 4-wheeling. Once an hour we started the truck and ran the heater. Every hour, the radio played "Think of Laura" by Christopher Cross. I hate that song.
22. I voted, along with the rest of the class, to have "Forever Young" by Alphaville play as we walked out of the gym after graduating.

I ask you, am I not the un-coolest of the un-cool?

Rock AND Roll

I know I'm getting old, because watching the Grammy's last night I found myself thinking something like "kids these days." This was in response to the ridiculous marching band performance with Kayne West and Jamie Foxx.
In contrast, Sir Paul McCartney's performance of "Helter Skelter" gave me goosebumps, as did Springsteen's "Devil & Dust" which he ended with a mumbled, "Bring 'em home." I was impressed by Kelly Clarkson's voice, though her song was a prom theme waiting for the prom.
And though Sleepy E claims Mariah is a real person, I've never been a fan of her music, so I can't say I'm sad she didn't win.
But I'm continually impressed by U2, whom I fell in love with way back in the '80s, when they were political. I still love them. How can you not love Bono and a man named The Edge?
I'm looking forward to catching up on "American Idol." I now feel like part of the mainstream, as American Idol is always in the top ten of the Nielsen ratings. Plus I saw that Paula Abdul is going to be on a Dr. Phil special, and since I'm following "American Idol" I feel like I should care. The commercial showed Paula crying. That seems good!

Brokeback Mountain

Middlebrow and I saw "Brokeback Mountain" last night with our friends Sylvia and Don.
Even though I was prepared for it to be incredibly sad, I was not prepared for it to be simultaneously aesthetically beautiful and emotionally devastating. I was surprised by how early I started crying, and how much I cried. I thought I could see where it was going the first time Jack sees Ennis, but I was shocked by the ending, and by the sheer rawness of the entire film. There were so many uncomfortable scenes, that were uncomfortable for so many reasons.
I definitely think this movie will win for cinematography. And I think Heath Ledger will be hard to beat. In any other year, Phillip Seymour Hoffman would be the hands down winner. But Ledger's restrained performance is just unbeatable. Same for the movie overall. I think seeing "Brokeback Mountain" explains why "Walk the Line" wasn't even nominated. "Walk" is a great film, don't get me wrong, I loved it, but compared to the emotional landscape of "Brokeback Mountain," I just don't think any other film can compete. The story's complexity, the difficulty of the characters' lives, the brilliance of all the performances: "Brokeback Mountain" is the whole package.
I predict Ang Lee will win for Best Director, and the movie will win for Best Picture. It may win for best Adapted Screenplay as well. And Cinematography. And Heath will win. I think Jake has a good shot at Best Supporting. I forget who else is nominated.
I have yet to see "Crash" or "Munich" which I understand are good films, but I can't imagine they could be better than "Brokeback Mountain."

On the Fly

I have a lot of anxiety about my Introduction to Imaginative Writing class this semester. Mostly it revolves around my ever-present feelings of inadequacy and my inability to make an outline before I step into the class. And, the idea that they won't talk. However, my resolution to break them into small groups has worked quite well so far. Today, we talked and talked about, what else?, dialogue. We had Ann Beattie's " The Burning House" as our subject. It has gems of dialogue like "I love the way you pour cream in a pan." Usually I leave 20 minutes at the end for a writing exercise for them to do while I check their notebooks. Today we just kept talking until there were only five minutes left. So my "teach on the fly" (which is basically my MO) method just keeps working. And, by the way, I did have a brief outline/subject list cribbed from Janet Burroway.
Re: Sleepy E's praise for my blog silence: I wish I could say it means I've been writing up a storm elsewhere. It does, sort of, mean that, I realized as I began blogging intending to say I haven't been writing. I started an essay entitled "What I'm Not Reading" and I wrote a poem, "A Mother Peruses the Dictionary." And I've been writing little "singles" based on lines from Wilco songs. So, ha to me!, I have, unbeknownst to myself, been writing. It's teaching the writing class. I write with them, do the exercises. I'm a person who really responds to assignments.
So here I go: I must go workout and then write 500 words. Now go!

21st Century Techno

Middlebrow and I have finally joined the 21st Century by getting a DSL. Since Ed, the friendly Qwest worker, came over, I have been on-line dutifully adding friends to my MSN messenger contacts so, in the case of emergency, I can IM them for information on how, for example, to tell if a substance is blood or just dried juice (my sister Lisa) or how long one might make a recipe low-fat (my sister Kristi) or what mystery I should add to my must read list (my mom) or if I have an inquiry about pedagogy (my sister Erin) or Derrida (my friend Brian whose screen name is the frightening NukeDescending). I also added SleepyE just in case he has a Big Red Phone or Hoochie Mama update. I need to be the first to know.
On the negative side, I now have no excuse for not keeping extremely up to date with my hybrid course, which may, finally, in week four, be ready for lift off. And I thought Son was good with the excuses! Geez, those students are very creative when it comes to why, exactly, they can't do their weekend assignments until noon on Monday.
No excuses! It's the take no prisoners approach to visual rhetoric. Stay tuned!

Walk the Line/New Glasses

Friday was a banner day here at Dr. Write headquarters. I finally got to see Walk the Line. And in my new glasses. I made MiddleBrow take a picture. I'm thinking of adding this to my profile, so that I can appear to be a good academic/intellectual/member of the intelligensia OR someone who is just visiting for Sundance. See? You can tell by the glasses.
Walk the Line gave me chills. Joaquin was great as Johnny Cash, but Reese can actually sing. She made me want to grow my hair long and wear pink blush. I loved everything about the movie. My favorite line was "That Elvis kid sure likes to talk poon." I laughed so hard, I nearly cried.
After the movie, I asked MB, what, essentially, is the difference between Walk the Line and Brokeback Mountain? Both love stories wherein the lovers must overcome obstacles. Oh yeah, Walk the Line has a happy ending. Must see Brokeback Mountain. Screw Larry Miller. We're not going to the Megaplex anymore. Not that we did, very often, anyway.
I'm looking forward to the Oscars. I think everyone should win. I think I'm in love with Joaquin AND Reese. And Phillip Seymour Hoffman. And Katherine Keener. And Jake. 

January, New Semester, Snow

Ron chastised me for not posting, and now that I'm here, blogging, I wonder if there is anything worth blogging about. I feel like my life has been crazed since we can back from Phoenix. There was New Year's, then my stomach hurt so I gave up wheat, soy, oats, anything with gluten. So I feel better, and I've been eating a lot of salad, and some meat. Occasionally I miss bread, but not too much. Yet.
I told my 1010 students that I was going to try to watch a whole season of "American Idol" because I never had before, and I feel like I'm missing out on an important aspect of American culture. So I watched the first show, but it turns out I missed an episode last night, so I'm not doing too well on that score.
But I am writing. Middlebrow and I are trying to write two pages a day and so far (since last Thursday) I'm doing pretty well. I've started a few new essays with my creative writing class and I've written a few pages on "the novel."
I was looking through The English Patient last night because I assigned my students to bring in five epigraphs from different sources. I love this novel and I was looking for epigraphs from sections that I remember loving when I read it. Looking through it I realized that even though it has a coherent narrative, it's not told in a coherent, continuous stream (something I'm having trouble with). And he has many short lyric sections (which I have no problem writing, it's getting them to cohere with the other short sections that stalls me). So I took some inspiration from his structure. Also reading Calvino with my creative writing class. His stories aren't really about anything. I think he just chooses a structure and lets that contain his writing. So two good lessons for me. Also, last year I heard that Nabakov wrote Lolita on little index cards while sitting in his car with the windows rolled up, so he was in a little writing cave. So hey, I can fill an index card! Three good lessons for me in novel writing.

1. Short lyric sections are okay
2. Choose a structure and forget about it
3. Index cards!

I think I'm ready to go on!

Christmas, Round Two

Here in Phoenix, it was 77 degrees today. On Christmas. We celebrated by getting out of bed at 6:15 a.m. (MST). Santa had indeed visited. We tracked his movements on Christmas Eve via NORAD. Big Fun. He brought The Cousins both guitars (what a musical family!) and for Son, some new Legos. For Son, the highlight was the Playmobil Castle with knights, horses and dragons from the parents and grandparents. For me, an iPod shuffle from MiddleBrow, proving that he is, in fact, the best husband in the universe.
MiddleBrow and Dr. Write spent more than an hour (combined time) assembling said Castle. While it is not technically required to have a PhD in order to assemble German toy products, it certainly doesn't hurt. We appreciated the little accessories, including faux wooden tables and beer steins. Gotta love those Germans.
After naps and showers, we enjoyed a casual dinner of beef, ham, potatoes of many kinds, jello, and assorted veggies. TV viewing was split between animals (bears?) playing football and the dog show. Then, of course, more alcoholic beverages, desserts, cookies, and games.
I beat my four-year-old niece and my sister at Trouble! (yes!) and then my mom defeated my sister and me at TriBond. My mom also won Marry, Date or Dump. She must be cheating.
I also received a Napoleon Dynamite talking pen (it says many things, including "Freaking idiots!") and the DVD. I wonder, will they eventually sell "Way of the Puck" paraphanelia at Target?
So far I have exercised one day at my sister and mom's resort-like health club. And gone for a walk. But each day I have taken some time to sit in the sun and drink beer. Did I mention my mother has somehow gotten me addicted to sudoku? More on that later. Many cookies to eat. Must be off.

Snowshoes, Snow, Grandpa: Must be Christmas

After opening his snowshoes Saturday night, Son, Grandfather and I went "snowshoing" on Sunday, just after the snowing began. We got in a good, brief walk. Enough to allow us to go home and drink hot chocolate, eat cookies, and put our pajamas on. That's what the season is all about.

Christmas, Round One

My father and his wife came down this weekend for Christmas. As soon as they arrived, Son decided it was time to open presents. He received snowshoes, penguins, and books. Hooray! I received some cotton pajamas, and a crossword puzzle game (electronic). It was instantly addictive, and reminded me of being a kid and receiving something you didn't even know you wanted until you got it. I have solved three or four puzzles so far. I'm looking forward to utilizing it on the long drive down to Phoenix for Christmas, round two.
For our dinner, I made Beef Tenderloin (marinated in wine, etc. per my sister's recipe!), roasted vegetables, (a la Barefoot Contessa) and Caesar Salad (thanks Surreal Gourmet!) with the Mionetto novello '05 (an alternative to the Bojelau Nouveau) (sorry , of course I can't spell). So you see I would be sunk without my friends at the Wine Store and those who write cook books.
Middlebrow returned home today after a brief foray to the rainy and cold Northwest.
I finally bought Son a Christmas Stocking. Mine, of course, was knit by my mother when I was a child. It's red and has my name on it. Son's is red and white striped and and was knit by displaced persons in Bosnia. But I think the money I paid contributes to upgrading their standard of living. Otherwise why would they have the tag with the woman's name?
I will post again from Christmas, Round Two, down south. The plan, so far, includes viewing "The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe" with the cousins, girls night out (which will involve Cosmos, no doubt), making Chex Mix, the dip of my childhood (cottage cheese, garlic salt, cream cheese and red wine vinegar). All of a sudden I'm craving the caramel corn my mother used to make for every birthday sleep over, made with something called "burnt sugar" flavoring. Maybe I can talk my mom into it. Also, there will be much movie viewing on the new huge flat screen tv.
I'll let you know.

Birthday Outing Part Two & Motherhood Redemption

First things first: the dinner at Martine was a sublime experience, reminding me why people spend obscene amounts of money dining out. We began with two tapas: the roasted Chanterelle mushrooms and the Lobster ragout in saffron sauce with a polenta corn cake. I preferred the lobster. It must have been the pound of butter in the saffron sauce. We had the Sangria with this course. Then we had salad and Pinot Noir. I ordered the Beef Tenderloin with the Blue Mash and roasted vegetables. Middlebrow had the Lamb Tenderloin with some kind of pasta. Again, sublime. Then we shared the Chocolate Decadence and each had a glass of Porto. Sorry no pictures. We were caught up in the moment. Then we rented two discs of "Monk," picked up Son and went home.

I also managed to redeem myself from Bad Mother Purgatory by baking peanut butter/cornflake/chocolate bars on Saturday and Chocolate Chunk cookies on Sunday. The former I froze (most of) to take to Phoenix for Christmas. The latter are for general consumption, which Middlebrow is doing his part to expedite.

Right now, I am collecting final projects from my 1010 class. They seem in good spirits. They ask me for 2010 recommendations. Of course, I recommend High Touch Megastore, Middlebrow, and other faculty members.

Happy grading to all!

Birthday Outing, Part One

Last night I went to Tsunami in Sugarhouse with the girls (and Burger, in town only to defend his dissertation, so we allowed him to be an honorary girl for the night, which only got weird when he wanted to girl watch at Fats Grill).
The evening actually started at Otterbutt's house, with red wine and baby adoration. Then we went to Tsunami where we stood for half-an-hour and drank Plum Fizzes (no one but me seemed to adore this drink). Then we had an expensive bottle of Zinfandel and got a table. During our wait, Dr. Burger showed up.
Tsunami has the best sushi in town. And the best miso soup! Our favorite rolls of the evening were Jenny (crab, avacado, salmon, with thin lemon slices), TNT (I think it was some kind of spicy tuna), DHT (I have no idea what that stands for, but the entire roll was tempura-ed. Yum!). My friend Andie ordered deep-fried Green Tea Ice Cream (also super Yum!). We had more wine in there somewhere, and were joined by two more friends. We closed the place.
Then Dr. Burger, Sylvia, and I went to Fats Grill where Sylvia flirted with boring men and Dr. Burger tried to enlist me in some girl watching, Dr. B demonstrating an obvious preference for the big busted. Then we played pool (we were all terrible, Dr. Burger being slightly less terrible than Sylvia and me). After midnight the bartender wished me happy birthday.
This morning Middlebrow and I opened our gifts. I got slippers, which I had been proclaiming loudly that I needed in our drafty, cold house. I got him a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (that's the name of the band) CD. Son wanted to get him the Star Wars soundtrack, but as the mother, I got my way.
Looking forward to another blog-worthy meal at Martine this evening. We purchased a digital camera today, so we may have pictures tomorrow.

Another Significant Failure in My Career as a Mother

Last night, as I was "making cookies" with Son, Middlebrow chastised me for my frequent cries of frustration. The sugar cookie dough (recipe from Sunset magazine) was dry and crumbly. What resulted was: Gingerbread Man de Milo, trunkless elephants, Christmas trees as thick as magazines. But Son enjoyed "frosting" them (dabbing frosting on various parts of the cookie, attempting to lick the frosting off of the cookie and his fingers at the same time, fingerfrosting the cookies, etc.) and eating them. At least I had the good sense to buy the frosting.
I will just chalk this up to the latest of my failures as a mother. Why didn't I just do what I did last year and buy the cookie dough AND the frosting? Why do I try? I should just give in and, like the heroine of I Don't Know How She Does It, learn how to fake my baked goods.
As Middlebrow acknowledged last night, it's going to take a lot of alcohol and coffee to make it through the end of the semester.
Viva el vino!

Indie Films: The Mediocre

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Over the River and Through the Woods

We're off, the Dr. Middle-Write-Brow contingent, to Inkom, Idaho for what promises to be another Thanksgiving packed with too much food and wine and too little exercise. I promised Son that we would go for a hike. Doesn't look like there will be any snow.
When I asked Son what he most liked to do at Grandpa's house he answered, "Trains, the tractor, that card game, or playing with toys." He has his priorities in order.
My Dad actually does have two old tractors that he tinkers with and occasionally drives around his big backyard. Son loves to take rides on it. I'm always afraid it's about to tip over, trapping Son and Grandpa beneath it. So far it hasn't happened.
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday: there's no gift shopping to do before, so you can really concentrate on what's important: food. I love turkey and stuffing and pie. Pie may be my favorite dessert. But then, I love cake too.
What am I thankful for: Son, Middlebrow, my job, the fact that I'm healthy and happy, all the cliches. Also: HBO (Six Feet Under, The Sopranos, Sex and the City), good movies (Capote, Motorcycle Diaries, any documentary), the fact that people keep writing and reading books, no matter how trashy.
Really, I'm thankful that Jennifer Aniston has hooked up with Vince Vaughn (I never was a Brad fan) and that the media have found something to talk about besides Tom Cruise (though when the alien baby is born, they'll be back on the front page) and Iraq.
Oh yeah: I'm grateful that the wheels of justice are grinding and just might crush Tom Delay. Hey, it wouldn't be Thanksgiving without a little graphic violence. I prefer good old fashioned politics to football anyday.
Unless I'm the one playing football, of course. I'm a good QB.
Happy Turkey Day all.
And be thankful. W hasn't shut down the blogisphere. Yet.

My Son, the Rock Star

Monday evening, when MB was out at his basketball game, Son and I turned the living room into a performance space. I was the drummer, clanging two beaters (from the electric mixer) together while Son sang into another beater, while gesturing wildly and doing some dance moves I've not seen before.

A sampling of Son's lyrics:

The house and it's covered with black
The sky is full of black
The carrot that you eat
The bunny-rabbit that you are
Wallace and Grommit!!!!!
1-4-8-4
3-1-8-4
You lied!

Imagine these screamed out in a rock star way, and you've got it. Son had some great hand motions as well, a behind the back, over the head, grasping fist/hand gesture that I'm sure will be famous some day.

I think it's time to start guitar lessons.

M/MLA Redux

Things accomplished in Milwaukee:

1. Dirty Martini consumed at Blu, on the 23rd floor of the upscale Pfister Hotel. We had a view of The Lake, the gas building, and a ginormous bank. The mood: swanky hotel bar, complete with couches and comfy chairs. Bonus: I swiped the matches! I don't smoke!
2. Had a beer. In the interest of authenticity, Fine Arts Friend and I visited Mader's, where we each had a huge beer (it lasted through the salad course, the entree, and into dessert) and we split a Bavarian Platter, which was basically just different kinds of meat: bratwurst (from Usinger's Sausage, right across the street), knockwurst, and pork loin? Also sauerkraut, of course, and some potato thing of indeterminate origin.
3. Ate several things I probably shouldn't have, including: two different chocolate based desserts; appetizers whose second ingredients were cheese (but they were so good!); I think that's it? Maybe the potato thing (see above).
4. Asserted myself with hotel staff. When I arrived, so late on Thursday evening, I was given a room with a bed designed for a little person (and I don't mean a kid). I don't consider myself tall, but when I laid in the bed, my feet hung off the end. The next morning I called the front desk. While I was at the conference on Friday, they moved my stuff to a bigger room with two beds. Hurray for assertiveness!
5. Did not locate Laverne and/or Shirley nor any L/S paraphernalia. But FAF said she might be able to make me a sweater with a big L on it. Or sew a big L on a pre-existing sweater. Something. I think she has an expensive sewing machine, so if anyone can do it, she can.
6. Networked with people who have no connection or power in any related field I may or may not be interested in. M/MLA wins, hands down, over the regular old MLA for friendliness. I met an Indian woman from Tennessee, and a comparative lit professor from Northern Milwaukee, both times when I was just sitting alone drinking coffee. Gotta love those friendly Midwesterners.
7. Met a Super Cool woman (who was on the "Mothers, Maidens, Murderesses" panel with me) who has a PhD in Scandinavian Literature and Language. Her paper was on "Bad Mothers" in Norwegian novels. My favorite part was that her introduction was all about "Alias." Of course, she was from the Northwest (but now teaching in Indiana).
8. Attended panels of extreme relevance to our current "Five-Year-Plan" discussion. More to follow on this.
9. Caught up on meaningless television (That 70s Show, Malcolm in the Middle, Sex in the City).
10. Read two novels that were okay, but not great: Shop Girl by Steve Martin (a summary or an outline of a novel, really. Okay, I know it's a novella. But if you are going to use the "several months pass this way" technique, couldn't it have been a novel?); and The Dog's Ransom by Patricia Highsmith (quite disappointing, not very suspenseful, not very well written, no incredibly creepy yet charming characters, kind of boring, but compared to staring out the window at cornfields, well, I guess the novel is better than some things).
11. Went to Milwaukee Art Museum. Saw the sail/wing structure flexing at Noon when we arrived. Hurray for serendipity!
12. Attended Live! Performance Art Showcase: a man, who looked naked, lifting up silver mixing bowls and spoons and "transforming" into a raven. My favorite part was when he put on a purple shirt while wearing a white shirt. It did look a little like feathers. But I was sort of giggling on the inside. After this piece I asked my FAF, "why is modern dance the only art form that has completely missed out on irony?" It was so earnest, I felt responsible somehow; some very good slam poetry from the Milwaukee Slam team (I won't comment here on the "my trauma is worse than your trauma" aspect of some of it; my favorite was a guy who was part stand-up comic, part love-poet, very sweet); and the star of the night: the middle-aged hula-hooper. She stood on stage in a polka-dotted dress and worked the hoop while doing some miming-type activity to Tracy Chapman's "Mountains of Things." In the second-half she came back again, this time with k.d. lang's "Constant Craving" while a video cuts of Wal-Mart and George W. played on a screen behind her. She was in really good shape! There was also a woman pouring water, doing some astrology thing that was only amusing once or twice. And a "Fash Attack!" sort of a new take on a fashion show. Mildly amusing. Certainly worth the $7 my FAF paid for the tickets (I got the wine at Polaris, the rotating restaurant atop the Hyatt, where we were staying. Many questions: why is it called Polaris? How fast was it turning? How bad is the food? The bar where we sat was not spinning, the result being that we couldn't look out the windows because we got motion sick trying to figure out why the people were moving, but the windows weren't. On the plus side, we felt drunk without actually drinking.)
13. Promised FAF and beer-drinking beau that I would return with Middlebrow and Son at some point in the future for a Milwaukee pub crawl. I think Milwaukee is the antithesis of Salt Lake City. For example: when I got to the MMLA conference around 10 a.m. on Friday, there were many people in the Lobby Lounge drinking beer. Also: at the Performance Art show they were selling liquor in the lobby in plastic cups. Two words: free pour. AND you could get beer, in bottles, to take into the show. Also: two pubs on every corner. Also: the Pabst Theater, the Miller this or that. You get my point.
14. Overall: Milwaukee a rousing success! Love Milwaukee! Had faith in basic corn-fed, dairy-laden goodness of Midwest restored. What's wrong with Kansas? It ain't Wisconsin, that's what's wrong with it!

MMLA-Milwaukee

So I'm off to the midwest! Wish me luck in procuring foodables that are not 90% dairy!

Actually, I don't leave until tomorrow, but since I will be spending my last 24 hours stateside doing such things as packing, consoling Son, and finishing my paper (this is how it's done, I've been assured; at least I won't be revising in the hotel lobby), I decided to say good-bye today. Here's a list of tasks I hope to accomplish in Milwaukee:

1. Drink a filthy martini in the swanky bar, Blu, on the 23rd floor of the convention hotel.
2. Find the brewery where Laverne and Shirley worked.
3. Get a sweater with a big Laverne style "L" on the chest.
4. Drink some beer.
5. Go to the Art Museum with my Fine Art friend (FAF).
6. Read a trashy novel on the way to and perhaps during and on the way back from the convention.
7. Eat something I probably shouldn't be eating, like bleu cheese mashed potatoes. Or maybe some garlic fries?
8. Visit a couple pubs. My FAF assures me she can get the password to an exclusive pub which she also assures me will be like all the other non-exclusive pubs: dark, serving beer, maybe a little creepy.
9. Work out two days in a row (must investigate hotel work out facilities. Avoid Lis's tragedy with the treadmill).
10. Sleep? Maybe.

I'm Foxy!

I thought I'd take a break from boring academics to alert you all to a new development in my existence: I'm foxy! This according to a few drunk men at a party I went to Friday night. Before the party, two different women said I looked like I had lost "a lot of weight." One even asked if I was sick. Should I feel flattered?
Then at the party, a few people were staring at me in such a way to make me feel self-conscious. Like, do I have green salsa all over my chest?
I think that I may have looked thinner because I had my hair pulled back. Plus, I was sick for about two days right before the party, so I may have appeared thin/sick.
But it was just a weird experience for me. I mean, I trained for a half-marathon all summer and, as far as I could tell, I didn't lose a pound. Then I stopped running.
And suddenly I'm FOXY!
Go figure.
I think this means I can drink all the beer I want in Milwaukee.

Motherhood and Work in Three Stories by Lydia Davis

Here is the beginning of the presentation I will be giving this week at MMLA. Comments, questions, feedback PLEASE! I figure if I post a bit every day, it will help me hone (and finish it!) before I go.

The less one feels a thing, the more likely one is to express it as it really is.
-- Flaubert

The three stories I will be discussing, “The Old Dictionary,” “Marie Curie, So Honorable Woman” and “Mothers,” deal with the subject of motherhood in radically different ways. In “The Old Dictionary,” Davis contrasts the treatment of an old dictionary with that of a son. “Marie Curie” describes incidents in the life of the famous scientist, events that describe not only her work but also her status as a mother. The story “Mothers” treats the subject of mothers and motherhood from an objective, almost sarcastic point-of-view. In all three stories, Davis employs her signature distance, which imbues the subjects (whether “I,” “she” or “mothers”) with a sheen of otherness. This otherness allows the narrator to deal with the emotions and conflicts of motherhood without sentimentality. In fact, sentimentality seems impossible, for the separation of the speaker and the subject matter is so complete that, like Marie Curie, the speaker seems to be observing the characters through a mechanical apparatus. That apparatus is narrative itself. Focalization, that is Davis’s ability to distance the narrative “I” from the character “I” or “she,” allows the narrator to analyze rather than experience events. This narrative distance gives the stories a detached, almost hermetic feel. The effect of this distance is to render the events described in these stories both anonymous and universal, so that the mothers referred to in the stories are at once non-existent (no one) and universal (every woman). Davis’s fiction demonstrates that narrative can be structure of objectivity that returns the subject (both the content and the character) to the realm of emotion via distance.

The Joy of Cooking (with Son)

Last night Son and I had our first cooking-together experience. It was fantastic! I bought Rachel Rae's Cooking Rocks! book and we made Fried Chicken Toes. Son was especially proficient at crushing Corn Flakes for the breading. Once we put them in the oven, he said, "I'll put the plates on the table." We had bought some orange candles and he wanted to put them on the table. "We should put some flowers on too!" he said. Unfortunately, we had no flowers. But I was pleased to note that Son recognizes the importance of presentation. It's not only about the food, it's about all the pleasing things around the food. I was proud of him, and he was proud of himself. He likes cooking (mostly the dumping of ingredients into a bowl, cracking eggs, and stirring. He's not so fond of getting his hands dirty).
Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday and I'm especially looking forward to it this year. Maybe I'll let Son pick out the flowers.

The Roller Coaster of Creativity

Maybe it's just that I've been eating too much chocolate and not enough fresh vegetables, but I feel like I've been on a roller coaster this week. Up, Down, Upside Down.

Middlebrow often thinks my self-esteem slumps are an effect of my being a creative writer. You don't see American Studies professors acting like that, he says. It may be true. In graduate school, the creative writers were the ones on mood altering drugs (prescription!) and the American Studies folks seemed very even keeled. Maybe they just self-medicate with beer and Cosmopolitans.

But it begs the question, does the creativity required to be a writer or an artist also mean that we are more prone to bouts of low self-confidence and more days where we just want to stay in our jammies and watch "Ellen"?

I don't know. But maybe it is my lack of writing time, or the feeling that no one, ever, will publish my collection of short stories that is so eclectic as to be schizophrenic, and to contradict the word "collection."

See, this is why MB gets frustrated with me. I just won the Utah Collection Contest, I have an essay, beautifully designed and illustrated, forthcoming in Ninth Letter, what the hell is wrong with me?

Oh yeah, I'm a writer.

Emma and The Gender Bias

Today in my theory class I tried to confront the pretty much universal initial reaction my students to the novel Emma. Among the nine students (yes, I'm down to nine), not one of them claimed to really enjoy it. Perhaps my own love of Austen has blinded me to her faults, but c'mon, not one? In an effort to find something to convince them that the novel has literary merit, I did a search on J-Stor. What did I find? Some woman scholar criticizing the novel for being "light" and "of no consequence." As a reaction of my male students, I can (sort of) understand their inability to relate to Emma or Knightley and any of their decidely upper-class dilemmas. But a woman scholar? Why the Austen bashing?

Still looking for some comfort, I turned to my friends Gilbert and Gubar. There's a reason Madwoman in the Attic is still in print, still required reading for so many scholars. It's refreshingly clear and direct. What did I find there? A feminist defense of Austen, to be sure. And some humorous, and infuriating quotes from male (and female) writers about how Austen's novels are "perfect as far as they go-- that's certain. Only they don't go very far" (that's Elizabeth Barrett Browning).

Here are a few more:

Mark Twain, "I could read his [Poe's] prose on a salary, but not Jane's. Jane is entirely impossible. It seems a great pity that they allowed her to die a natural death."

Henry James, ". . .she sometimes, over her work basket, her tapestry flowers, in the spare, cool drawing-room of other days, fell amusing, lapsed too metaphorically, as one may say, into wool gathering, and her dropped stitches, of these pardonable, of these precious moments, were afterwards picked up as little touches of human truth, little glimpses of steady vision, little master-strokes of imagination" (qtd. in Gilbert & Gubar).

What's striking about these criticisms, aside from their belittling her art as mere "dropped stitches" is their overwhelming sexism. At the base of these criticisms, and at my students' inability to "relate" (as they said), is a dislike of female stories. I don't mean merely a dislike of stories by and about women (though I mean that too), but a dislike of a focus on the domestic, on the private, on intimacy, on conversation. This criticism is couched as a lack of plot. "Nothing happens," my students said. I then proceeded to list all the things that happened in the text. It's not that nothing happens, I countered, but that you don't like what does happen. Why? They say it's only about "relationships" and "marriage." Yes, I said, on some level it's a marriage plot. (I've always disliked this term: it reminds me of a plot of land, as in where the woman will be buried when she is married. Ha!) But it's also about class and status, about manners, about obligation and family, about language and textuality.

As a response to their initial reactions to the text, today in class I had my students list books they were required to read in English classes. Then on the other side of the board, we listed books they had read for fun. We talked about which required texts were part of the new canon (Morrison, Momaday, Cisneros) and which were part of the old canon (Shakespeare, Conrad, Homer, Dickens, etc.). And then we talked about how many were by women (very few) and how many had a female narrator or protagonist (even fewer). Only one that most people had read, To Kill A Mockingbird, was both written by a woman and featured a main character who was also female. But, I went on to say, it's not even wholly Scout's story; it's the community's story. Plus, one of my students added, Scout's kind of a tomboy.

Then I tried to get them to see how what they expect of a novel has been shaped by the novels they've read. What's more, their assessment of a text's literary worth has been influenced by the texts they were required to read. There's literature, and then there's the light books, the guilty pleasures, the indulgences. We know which are which.

As this is a theory course, I said, I'm just trying to get you to have some kind of critical awareness of why you like what you like and why most of you don't like Emma. They seemed to get it. The two women even seemed to have liked the book once they got into it.

Ultimately, I told them, I don't think it's just a book about marriage. I made my case for why the book is about Emma's inability to read other characters; in theory-speak, Emma is about the unstable signifiers of gesture and intention. As the text states, "She had taken up the idea, she supposed, and made every thing bend to it." Finally, then, the book is about pre-conceptions, and how we interpret the world through the lense of our firmly held beliefs about what things mean, how they signify. Even if they don't seem to mean what we want them to mean, we bend the signs to fit our ideas. We don't interpret, we project.

I'm not sure they bought it, but seeing as how most of them hadn't finished the book, I think they just took my word for it.

Son Asks the Tough Questions

Last night when we were sitting in the Breakfast Nook, Son asked me some questions. After I responded, he would make a little tally mark on his paper, rest his hand on his chin, look at me and nod. Then he would ask another question, nodding as I answered. I am only sorry I cannot replicate his hand gestures here for your amusement. Just imagine some of the hand gestures you've seen me make when I talk.

What is necessary about dogs?
What is necessary about cats?
Why do cats poop in the house?
Where do dogs go when they die?
What do you think, does money survive or not survive?
Tell me how you feel about money.
What is necessary about this point to relation of form? (Here he gestures, circling his hands in front of his body, away from each other and then bringing them back together.) I think he says something about "complexity." When I ask him what he means he smiles and then laughs.
What is necessary about cats and dogs? Together. Like 5 and 6 are together. (Here he writes a five next to a six and draws a line to connect them.)

When he asks me "Where do cats go when they die?" I answer that perhaps it's like a big living room, with a rug and a fire and lots of toys.
"And they can poop in the house?" he asks.
He knows what's really important.

The Re-emergence of Fun!

I am rediscovering Fun! (that's fun with a capital "F" and an exclamation point) Not that I think Fun! and I have been enemies for the last, say, seven to ten years, but I think graduate school saps a little bit of the Fun! out of you. Or, should I say, graduate school hinders our ability to just have the Fun! without analyzing it, deconstructing it, commenting on it as it happens, etc.
I rediscovered Fun! this weekend during my first tennis class. I haven't taken tennis lessons since junior high. In high school, the coach let me practice with the team and I got pretty good. But I'd forgotten how much fun it is to be ordered around, to receive unambiguous instructions, and to just run around the court, without much thinking, for an hour and a half. As adults, I think we are under the mistaken impression that exercise has to be mundane or it's not good for us, but it's not true!
I really liked not being in charge. I liked when the coach, Debbie, told me exactly what to do. Stop! Plant your feet! Start swinging for that lob sooner! Toss the ball higher for your serve! Stretch those abs! Wrong foot! (Not to give you the wrong impression. Debbie didn't actually yell. She said everything calmly).
I especially liked this silly game we played in teams of two against other teams of two with one coach feeding us balls: an approach shot, a volley, an overhead. I was running and sweaty. Today I'm actually sore!
All I can say is that now I'm dedicated to playing tennis as much as possible, and to taking tennis classes where I get some concrete instruction. Language, in tennis class, is not an arbitrary signifier. I bloody well know what a volley is.
Let's hear it for Fun!

Baby Lust

My best friend from junior high, Adrienne, came to town yesterday. She brought her three month old daughter, Alex, who was incredibly adorable and ridiculously well-behaved. She didn't cry once (okay maybe once, but only for about three seconds) and she fell asleep pretty quickly just from being walked around and bounced for a little while.
Son enjoyed having the little visitor around, and he especially liked interpreting her coos and sighs, her kicks and swipes for us. When a blanket was placed on her and she started kicking, he said, "She doesn't want that." When she cooed for a few seconds, he said, "She's hungry." He really liked watching her nurse. I think it took him back to the good old days. When she needed her diaper changed, he grabbed a diaper and the wipes out of the bag.
I gained a little insight into what kind of big brother he would be. He was very anxious to help, and he loved talking to her and smiling at her, trying to get her to grip his hand. But he was also a little nuts, dancing a little too close to her tiny head, and jumping and being his normal crazy self.
But the baby was so cute and he was so attentive it made me, momentarily, rethink this whole "one kid" thing. I know it's more economical and more environmentally sound, but babies are cute! And Son seemed pretty into her. When I asked him, however, if he wanted a little sister, he said, "No." I always wanted an older brother (because I have three sisters, of course). Part of me wants Son to be an older brother. But I'm not sure that's a good enough reason to have another child. Is it?

Laughing

For some reason I've been thinking about laughing lately. Perhaps it was brought on by watching Conan O'Brien bobbing for apples (after Martha Stewart tied his hands behind his back with a cloth napkin, of course). I laughed so hard I almost cried. And then I thought about how long it had been since that had happened. And then I remembered a man I knew in high school. I think he was a gay barber, but that's beside the point. (And how did I meet him? And why did I know him? Fascinating questions, but also beside the point.)
At a party one night, he told me about a friend of his who was so funny in high school. She was hilarious. But then she went to college and she got ironic and bitter. And then she wasn't funny anymore. She didn't laugh as much. She got dark. All this by way of telling me to "maintain my sense of humor."
And now, on the eve of my 20th high school reunion, I have to ask myself, have I? When I think about the friends I had in, say, junior high, I remember how we used to laugh at the slightest thing. We used to laugh hard. And then in high school, all I had to do was call up my friend Cyndi using my "Jewish mother" voice and we would laugh for hours. We'd do our "Jewish mother" voices at the carwash, at the dinner table, during grammar class. We laughed all the time. And with my sisters it was the same thing. My one sister would do Dana Carvey doing George Michael. We would all sing "Chopping Broc-olli." In college I would leave my friends long, convoluted messages that usually had a punch line.
In recent memory, there's the Conan O'Brien thing. Oh yeah, and tonight I laughed at Son's statement that what he wanted for dinner was "Beans and Buggers."
So what's happened? Has life gotten less funny or have I?

Almost Famous

Today I was in the Writing Center perusing magazines as I waited for my class to start. I picked up Spin and saw Death Cab For Cutie on the cover. Immediately I heard in my head the lyrics for "Cover of the Rolling Stone." You know, it goes: Rolling Stone, gonna get my picture on the cover. Stone, gonna buy five copies for my mother.
This was prompted by the fact that a guy I used to work with, Nick Harmer, is in DCFC. He was the Music Director and I was a lowly DJ at Western Washington University's college radio station, KUGS. My friend Alison, co-host with me of "The Broadcast," always said Nick would be a rock star. He just looked like a rock star. He was cute, with a little boy/boy next door face. He seemed sweet. We went to their first show at a bar in Bellingham, The 3B, and after the show he practically ran out. He wasn't 21 yet and he was still shy. Now he's 30, a little chubby, and he's an indie rock star. The last time I saw him he was sitting outside a famous Bellingham eatery with Ben, the lead singer of DCFC. He told me he had just quit his job, managing a Blockbuster or something, and that they were "doing the band thing." I pretty much knew he was going to be a rock star. I should have gotten his autograph.
Seeing him on the cover of Spin made me muse on the trajectory of fame, and how our paths intersect with those of others. It also reminded me that I see a good friend of mine for the dorms at University of Oregon, Marc, on TV occasionally. I first saw him in Fred Meyer. He was on a Nike poster hanging from the ceiling. Then he was in one of those Valentine Hallmark ads with the magnetic bears. And then he was in a MGD commercial, the one where the woman tells her boyfriend (he's the boyfriend!) that her roommate is coming home and when he goes to the fridge to get a beer he sees the picture of the roommate and she's a hottie. He smiles and grabs three beers (implied threesome). Funny thing, though: he's gay. One of my best friends in college (a man) was in love with him. He was also in a Honda commercial and currently he's in a Taco Bell commercial. When we lived in the dorms together, I used to borrow his Benneton rugby shirts (green and white stripes). I still have a note he left on my door in the dorms. It's a cartoon he drew of himself, with severe cheek bones and hair made entirely of ninety-degree angles. He looks like Grace Jones.
Ahh! Those were the 80s!

"To generalize is to be an idiot"

We can thank William Blake for today's title. I came across this gem in the reading for my Theory course. It seemed to intersect nicely with my complaint about the movie "We Don't Live Here Anymore." In another essay, Bernard Paris, in response to Wayne Booth's comment that Robbe-Grillet's The Voyeur "does, indeed, lead us to experience intensely the sensations and emotions of a homicidal maniac. But is this really what we go to literature for?" answers "Yes." Paris's comment relates to a few of my complaints about the movie, and directly addresses Sleepy E's comment that characters do not need to be sympathetic in order to elicit our interest.
I agree both with Sleepy E and Bernard Paris. I do not need to like a character in order to be interested in his or her view of the world. In fact, sometimes I sympathize with a character more if he/she is NOT like me. I want to read a book that enlarges rather than diminishes my view of the world. I want my movies to do this too. "We Don't Live Here Anymore" did not enlarge my view of the world. Rather, it diminished it. To me the movie said "people are shitty. They do shitty things to each other. They pontificate on adultery and the nature of the conjugal contract." As Sleepy E points out, the Jason Patric character is not sympathetic. In fact, he is disgusting. But, he is morally and mentally complex. He's not simply "evil" or a placeholder for the "villian" function in the movie. Rather, he is evil, but in a complex way that is not easily grasped. He also, as we see in the end, seems to have some desirable quality that is also not easily named. He may be an asshole, but he's a decisive asshole, which seems preferable to the waffling banality of the other male characters.
My point is: the particular, the unique, the individual, the idiosyncratic makes great literature. The general is, as Blake so succintly notes, for idiots.

Why Should I Care?

Over the weekend, MB and I watched "We Don't Live Here Anymore," a film that was featured at Sundance last year. Or sometime. Anyway, it is based on two short stories by Andre Dubus. I bought his selected short stories awhile ago, but I have to admit that it has been slow going. Reading a bunch of his stories in a row is like walking over cut glass in bare feet. I might have to do it in order to get across the street, but do I want to do it? Would I choose to do it? Why would I do it?
The movie was a depressing assortment of characters without motivations or qualms or guilt. Only Terry (Laura Dern) was at all sympathetic, because she didn't want to have an affair, she just wanted to have sex. I love Mark Ruffalo and Peter Krause, but by the end of the movie I just wanted them both to shut up. If I were married to one of them, I'd stick his jeans in the washer with all his underwear, and then I'd leave him. These men were pathetic. Did I mention they were both college professors?
In any case, it made me think again about Dubus's short stories. They contain characters who are so depressed and down trodden and without hope. What's the point? I found myself wanting there to be a big train wreck so the movie would be over. Then I went back and started reading "Adultery" one of the stories the movie was based on. It was totally different of course, but it had the same thematic concerns.
My question is: Why should I care? It's probaby sacrilege to say, but Dubus seems to fetishize the dark aspects of his characters. Unlike Carver, who I think is sympathetic to his characters and more often than not gave them some kind of hope, even if it was only the alcoholic kind, Dubus seems to be making a negative statement about the human condition.
It reminded me of a workshop I took. We had to read "Long Days Journey into Night." At some point I said, "What's the problem? They're all addicts." The teacher made the case that it was more complex than that, that the play was about the intertwining needs of the characters.
Sometimes, I think, it really is simple. The characters are alcoholics. So what? Why should I care? I think it's the job of the movie director or the short story writer to make me care. And if I don't care by the time it's over, has the artist done his job?

Spiderman Pecuter

On Saturday, Middlebrow and Son attended the Avenues Street Fair and Son entered a drawing for a Spiderman Computer. When they got home, he told me all about it and asked when the lady was going to call about the "pecuter." He was sure, certain!, that he was going to win. In his view, all he had to do was fill out the paper and the prize was his.
About 8 o'clock that night, the phone rang. It was the woman from the Avenues street fair. Son had won the computer! She asked to talk to him, and after he got off the phone, he said, "See Mom? I told you I was going to win!" I informed him that it is not usual to win the first and only drawing you had ever entered. I, myself, have only ever won one drawing, for a sweatsuit, in 7th grade after I had participated in a Walkathon.
The nice couple brought the computer over, and after I freed it from its packaging, Son played with it. He now calls it his "Spiderman Laptop." It has letters in alphabetical order and different games, such as identifying rhymes and finding the missing letter in words. It took awhile, but I finally got him to close the laptop and put it away.
When I tucked him into bed, he said, "It's a new life. It's my fourth life, because I'm four. And when I'm five, I'll have a fifth life. If I get something new."
So begins Son's new life. He's learned an important lesson: milestones in life are marked by the acquistion of new consumer goods. Long Live the Spiderman Laptop!

Wherein I Jump on the Google Poetry Bandwagon

Donald Trump: Luddite Boy Scout

Dawns the new era when the Boy Scout
Motto "Be Prepared" is, for example,
a luddite described as having more than a color TV

Sad: An electrical accident at the Boy Scout
Jamboree in Virginia has killed four.
Call me old-fashioned, call me a Luddite, I don’t care.

Whether You are a technophile or neo-luddite or if you are (choose one):
1) Donald Trump
2) Richard Branson
3) Martha Stewart
4) Bill Gates
5) Oprah

It's a tough decision to make.
Or, if Trump was a boy scout
before he (never) went to Vietnam

Or if he was a cat or a hooker or a Girl Scout
Cookie. Donald Trump wants to fire you.
Donald Trump wants to. . .

Listen: Even Donald Trump is complaining. Is this Luddite
environmentalism? Is this positive thinking?
Or a gimmick? Like a new breakfast cereal or a press conference.

Donald Trump eats this way, chews this way,
Head in the sand, sad, a Luddite, oh—
He’s my boy, Scout, he’s a mogul.


Visit Google Poetry. Make your own poem!

Running: A Consideration

Running is a solitary act. Even when running beside my friend, I am alone in my pain, alone with my aching knees and my tingling feet. I run first and foremost in my head, perhaps in my solitary consciousness, alone with my thoughts and my doubts. But when running alone, with my friend, I run, somehow, through the doubts and the pain to the end, wherever that is, wherever I have decided beforehand to stop. Though I am tired and thirsty, though I swear in my mind at the lack of water, and rethink everything I ate or drank the day before, I finish.
I don't even like running. Really. But somehow, despite that, or perhaps because of it, I ran 13 miles.
Once, not too long ago, when I was watching TV and there was a guy in running shoes and shorts and a T-shirt, I felt a rev in my body, a physical reaction that said, "Run!"
Today, while doing my "recovery" workout, I wanted to get off the damn bike and onto the treadmill. For once, I considered my knees and did not run.
But I can see now, I can understand in my fundamental human condition, why people run, and why I know for certain that I will run again. Maybe not 13 miles, but I will run.

The Results of Guilt and Shame

Signifying Nothing has shamed me into posting. I admit, my last two posts were about running, and it had been awhile since I posted (more than a week). The half-marathon is Sunday, and then I will have no more to say about running.
I have been silent as a result of the beginning of school. Between figuring out a series of "play-dates" (which is really just a mom-friendly term for "Will you take care of my son while I work?") for Son and figuring out how both Middlebrow and I are going to get to and from school with one car, one bike, the bus and Trax, I have not had much time for contemplating the meaning of life or the status of my imaginative life. Perhaps my imaginative life has no status at present.
I fear I am beginning to exist in Theory World, where words have only contingent meaning. "When you say 'author'" I say to my students, "do you mean 'author' or do you mean 'critic'?" They stare at me blankly. "Are you talking about the 'author function'?" I gave them the whole "Third Bed" speech, and I was happy that I could draw a little stick bed on the board and share with them my prodigious artistic talent. But then I realized I had probably confused them with my picture of the bed, so today I had to revise my speech and draw a bed to represent the bed, and then a bed inside a picture frame to represent representation. You can see why I am overusing quotation marks in my post. "Do you mean 'representation' or Representation?" Soon I will be unable to talk. I will be silent, like the Urn, but I will know everything about Truth and Beauty.