Pal of mine is “re-working the fridge.” I’m not sure what that means, but he sent a pic:
Pause a moment. I know you’re half-drunk and just awake. I can’t believe what you did last night either. Just relax, and observe that fridge.
I just want to say two things:
1.) THIS is the kind of guy I can hang with. I feel like this guy wakes in the morning neutral, or not questioning the little cage of his life. I consider this way positive. I have MAJOR fridge envy.
2.) A person can reveal their existence through a refrigerator. This is a CW tip, folks.
Note how in this Murakami story, the newlyweds hunger (metaphor!) and uncertain state of matrimony is revealed by the list of items in the fridge.
Our refrigerator contained not a single item that could be technically categorized as food. We had a bottle of French dressing, six cans of beer, two shriveled onions, a stick of butter, and a box of refrigerator deodorizer. With only two weeks of married life behind us, we had yet to establish a precise conjugal understanding with regard to the rules of dietary behavior. Let alone anything else.
I am going to record my football pics. If you want to make $$$ this week, please take TENNESSEE. I am betting 20 UNITS (cash would be illegal, right?) on the vols.
(hold up a second. I’m going to add her blog to my roll. She’s kinda bad-ass.)
In this article, Stephen King signs books with his own blood!
Ok, do you have any signed books? I have many, but none of them mean anything to me (though most are friends and books I admire). I’m not sure why. I mean I had an awesome Martone Double Wide signed up by the author and then this poet spilled an entire cooler of water on it while we were driving back from a disc golf gathering in Madison, WI. What an ass! The water ruined the text and to be perfectly honest, I don’t care.
In Memphis, I once had a chance to own Bono’s (yes, that one) signature on a church bulletin, and passed. I just don’t see the point. Maybe it’s genetic to feel this way?
All this stuff, stuff, stuff, material stuff that lives past us makes me depressed. Somewhere in the future is a garage sale with my bright yellow running shoes on a card table. A fat man in a skinny shirt is bartering: “I ain’t giving over thirty-five cent!”
Maybe that’s the core of my problem? I don’t really know. (I just saw a cloud out the window in the shape of Fremont, Michigan. Weird.)
Only one word in the English language contains the letter combination UFA. Which one?
(no googling, you bastards)
In my MFA Cris Mazza made me read her books and short stories and then ended class by giving me a copy of her novel. A class is a captured audience.
In my MFA a guy named Will played poker naked. He also wore a kilt to bars (complete with Sgian Dubh). You wear a kilt to an Alabama dive bar and certain friction will emerge.
In my MFA not one person wrote like another person so I think the “MFA story” concept is a pile of bullshit. People who say they are “tired of MFA stories” need to get a hobby, or possibly relocate their brain (it’s currently in their duodenum).
One woman wrote pornographic Dr. Suess Rhymes. She now lives on an island.
One man wrote graphic novel type of stories. He has a story here. This story has a Peter Markus Singing Fish feel. (Can I admit I often don’t “get” Peter Markus? I’m not going to sit here and say I do. But I own and read his books and if he wants to hold a reading in my living room I’d let him, so…)
One woman wrote southern Gothic relationship stories.
One man wrote edgy Upper Michigan stories. This dude can play wicked disc golf.
I am trying to make a point here. Sean is trying to make a point. You are trying to make a point. We are trying to make a point.
In my MFA, in an act of possible self-hatred, I threw myself off a rooftop and fractured my calcaneus.
In my MFA Michael Martone had excellent examples but then he would repeat them. If you went to my MFA, I would give you this advice: “Try to meet with Martone alone.”
In my MFA we had a huge grant/bank thingy from a famous drunk, drug addicted actress so had much better visiting authors than your MFA.
like a poem, this woman…
In my MFA if you visited we gave you a big ol’ house.
We had to sue an author to leave that house once. He just would not leave. Maybe he had no place to go? Did we ever think of that, or were we too self-involved? The author read my story once and said to me, “Sean. You have a character talking to his dog. That shows a lack of imagination.”
In my MFA we threw names into a hat and gave a random student their very own house! Does that kick ass?
In my MFA I could name drop like you would not believe. But why?
This VERy famous poet (is that an oxymoron?) told me, “Your generation. You people always write about coffee. Why is that?”
In my MFA there was gunplay. In fact, one night a visiting friend of mine invited this poet (though I told her to avoid all poets, as a rule) back to my apartment for sexual relations, only they didn’t tell me. And so I wake from sleep and hear some guy in my living room. And I pull my revolver from below my mattress and walk into that room. And let me you tell you what happened. The poet pulled out his revolver! (This is something you have to consider if you are going to walk into a room with a gun drawn.)
Things were later resolved…
I could maybe write 3000 words here about that same gun-toting poet, but I will not.
In my MFA…
Wait, I’m getting bored.
Would you like an inside track on getting your super cool nobody-writes-like-you essay published? Well, here’s a new call for submissions. I got this email from Ander, so I’ll just post it. I’m not sure if the emailer wants it posted in a blog, but I’m trying to irritate some art here…
... I'm the nonfiction editor for Sonora Review this year, and we're having a tough time with the slush pile so far. That being so, and a very unfortunate so! , I was wondering if you knew anybody who might be willing (or wanting!) to submit to our humble and burgeoning publication. I'm wanting to expand the genre as it's known in Sonora (we get a lot of traditional memoir and personal essay) and I couldn't think of a better person to ask! If you can think of a friend, colleague, or just plain anybody who might have something interesting, please send them my way! (Our tentative deadline is October 15th). My email is firstname.lastname@example.org. So send something in if you have an EDGY essay. Read between the lines, folks. They want something nontraditional, not your usual walking in the marsh and saw a heron and it made you think of your divorce, etc. They also have a short-short contest. I am thinking about entering, so you should not (this will make it harder for me to cash in). Now go write like a lucky coin. **