Monthly Archives: December 2008

Run Rabbit, Fucking Run! John Milton all Growing His Hair Out. Complaint Letters.

It’s John Milton’s Birthday!!!!


We have a reading tonight at BSU Bracken Library, 5-7.

I refuse to read anything by John Milton.

So. I am reading something about margaritas and fasting and divorce and the real lack of impassioned speech in this world.


Whew. Just ran a pretty tight fartlek/temp thing. 5.5miles total, including warm up. I feel good, that tired good that makes your legs sweet, the mouth a little taste of blood, the lungs tight. Makes you feel alive. Juices coursing, your body an earth, veins all tributaries and flow. Etc.

2min @ 6:oo/2min 5:52

One mile 5:45

2min 6:oo/2min 5:52

One mile 5:45

2min @ 5:27

Pretty solid. I dedicate this workout to Katherine Switzer, the first woman to enter and run the Boston Marathon. This was illegal since the marathon was sexist, as in men only. Scientists (also sexist) at the time thought a woman would die if she ran 26. 2 miles. Katherine entered as a “bandit,”one my favorite running terms. While running the race, she was attacked by a race official!!


Pretty cool, eh?

1.) Note how immediately two runners start kicking the official’s ass. Runners always backup runners.

2.) How bout them sweats? I imagine that added about 20minutes onto her finishing time.

3.) She’s just smiling it off. That’s what runners do. During my last race, an ultra in Kentucky, I stepped on a root and busted my ass on mile 28. I just jumped up like a little squirrel and ran off smiling.

Murakami says, “You are going to feel pain. But are you going to suffer?”


Lunch…Ah, decision, decisions…



Blake Butler wrote some kind of poem post I don’t really care for.

Buy his book!


Christmas goes well. The weather is miserable and Seasonal Affective Disorder settles in like wet sand. My brain gallops along. I am buying most people inflatable toast.

Here is a Christmas poem by Jason Cook at Theives Jargon.

Here is a Kwanzaa interview by Ken Bauman at Art Noveau, if you were all wondering about Kwanzaa.

Here is a Hanukkah Flash Fiction by Lisa Ladehoff at robotmelon.

If you are one of those bland people who insist on just saying, “Happy Holidays” so as not to possibly offend, here is a novel excerpt for you by Steve Armour at Pif.

So there.


Here is a complaint letter I wrote Charms Candy Company when my Blow Pop was Fractured:

Charms L.P.

I am writing concerning your Super Blow Pop Bubble Gum Filled Pop, specifically grape flavor.

I have been eating Blow Pops—standard size—for years. I ate one during my first advanced swimming lesson (YMCA, 1979, a modified Finnish backstroke), as I competed in my first school chess tournament, while taking the ACT exam, during my first real date (this was in college—I started late due to my enormous unsymmetrical ears), and also a green sour apple blow pop as I was encouraging a young lady to accept a large diamond. All of these endeavors bore fruit: I did not drown, I got 2nd in the chess tournament, I scored 31 on the ACT and was accepted to the institute of higher learning of my choice (Alcorn State), and I eventually married my first date. (She has a uni-brow and a problem with caffeine, so maybe does not mind my ears!)

In any case…what I am saying is I have always had Blow-Pops. And have I had to defend them! I once had a chemistry professor who disallowed them during exams. I dropped the class, told him off, and wrote an informative letter to the editor of the school newspaper. I’ve had several people mention Blow Pops are inappropriate for church service. Funny, you can drink wine and eat stale crackers, but you cannot suck a simple lollipop? Where does it say that in the bible? Nowhere, that’s where. And I have friends who swear the candy cuts their tongues! Have you honestly ever had a case of someone lacerating his or her tongue on a Blow Pop? That’s an urban legend, in my opinion, like rubbing fabric softener on your body will keep off mosquitoes. (People believe this.)

My dad says never play poker with a tattooed lady, though that hardly seems relevant here.

Anyhow, my concern: The Super Blow Pop, which was a bit of an extravagance for me—I usually go with regular size. I unwrapped this sugary sphere of purplish joy and, to my horror, found it, well, destroyed beyond human repair. Imagine a tank rolling over an acorn. Think of the earth being hit by 10,000 earthquakes, the big Hollywood quakes, with cracks in the ground and cows tumbling in and people running around tearing their hair and stabbing each other with forks, etc. Imagine a bowling ball dropped from the moon onto a Wal-Mart parking lot. This is what my Blow Pop looked like!

Why? Tell me what happened. Help. I want to know. I need to know.

Sean Aden Lovelace

Doritos Adverts. Arlene Ang. Now Crouches Winter.

Well, now that I am training for the The World’s Oldest Annual Marathon I really am going to have to reconsider my diet. I need to reevaluate things. I need a “training food,” like something Rocky would eat during those painful yet necessary months, you know, the Russian winter montages…

I do not eat eggs, so please do not think: A blender full of eggs.


Something with carbs, protein, dairy–a balanced running fuel. Fortunately, at Ball State, we have a serious Sports and Exercise Science dept. I walked over (took the stairs) and met with several professors, all of them leaders in the field of sports nutrition, etc.

(Aside: This reminds of the time I went to school in Tuscaloosa, AL. We had an awesome workout center, with a huge parking lot. Whenever I ran over there, I would notice the cars circling the lot, driving around and around, to get a spot CLOSEST to the workout center, you know, so they, um, wouldn’t have to walk very far…)

The BSU professors ran a few expensive tests. I had to run on a treadmill and breathe into a hose. I felt like Luke Skywalker right after he was frozen in an ice cave on planet Hoth (and had to cut a monster’s arm off to escape) but right before he kissed his sister. When he was floating in that giant aquarium under the careful watch of a Medical Droid.

(Aside: George Lucas has a fetish about cutting arms off. Think about it.)

They took blood, other fluids. They rubbed a chalky blue patch onto my forehead. I had to eat salts of glysophates. I had to engage in dynamic, multi-step processes, on an elevated carpet. They said, “Cut the dead wood!” and other encouraging words. They studied my enzymes. They studied my thoughts on paper. They researched my muscle mass, vinegar status, and ceramics.

This took days.

They gave me a print-out, a binder, a book of blue vowels. They told me I drink too much. They told me my lungs were the size of telephones ringing in the middle of the night. My heart a fucking Fender Bender machine of Thor. A Pacific Northwest Experiment Station. Finally, after crunching numbers, after pre-writing and writing, after slide script and slide script, after consulting with some tall dude in Switzerland, they developed a comprehensive diet–the most perfect fucking diet!!–for my endeavor to conquer the Boston Marathon:




Zygote in my coffee has my favorite poem today:

Please Meet My Table

It’s Formica. We’re in, what you would call, a relationship. One day I woke up under it. I know. It looks better on film. You look as if you haven’t lain under one for sometime. At least, that’s what my hairdresser says. She uses saran wrap to cover her furniture. It was a bad idea inviting my neighbors to the New Year’s Eve party. You’re bound to learn these lessons once you’re seeing someone you should stay away from. A therapist, for one. Or a spouse with sweaty hands. I can still fit my first marriage into a coffee mug. Thirst can drive animals out of the cave art. I’ve recently moved from Cincinnati myself. Scabs never lie. I’m not sure I should’ve stuck my head out the window. I like to observe what I vomit, watch the fizzle. That night the fireworks burst at ten-second intervals into flower-shapes. _Love me, love me not._ I find that if I lie softly under the table, I can identify the feet of those going in and out the room. You shouldn’t talk politics before you’ve put on your teeth. That’s my grandmother’s advice. A bed of egg sandwiches is still a bed.


For when you are bored and wondering late at night why you bought that damn dog and don’t have many friends, here is a Best of Craig’s List so you can laugh and feel free and all that. Etc.


It’s fucking cold in Muncie. It’s been a weird day. I feel like this:


Mecca Accomplished!

Serious writers have to visit Topeka, Kansas. Serious chefs, France. Serious mountaineers, Everest. Serious marathoners? There is really only one race that defines the physical and spiritual endeavor. But they only take runners who run a qualifying time. And they only take 25,000 per year.

In my email today…

113th Boston Marathon

Dear Sean A. Lovelace,

This is to notify you that your entry into the 113th Boston Marathon on Monday, April 20, 2009 has been accepted, provided that the information you submitted is accurate.

You can verify your acceptance into the field by searching the 113th Boston Marathon “Entrants” database on the B.A.A. web site, Additionally, an acceptance postcard will be mailed to you via US Postal Service mail.

In early April 2009, an official Number Pick-up Card and extensive information regarding the B.A.A. Boston Marathon and related race week activities will be mailed to you via US Postal Service first class mail. If you do not receive your Number Pick-up Card (required to claim number) and brochure by April 11, please contact our Registration Office at Registration related inquiries may also be directed to 508-435-6905.

Note that bib numbers will not be distributed on Race Day. Your travel arrangements should take into account picking up your number at the Hynes Convention Center in Boston on Friday, April 17 from 2:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m., or Saturday, April 18 or Sunday, April 19 from 9:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m.

We look forward to seeing you in April! Best of luck in your training!


Boston Athletic Association


Time to get training….


I interview Ander Monson!!

I have a new piece coming out in Diagram soon. It is my Regis Philbin text. It is all Regis Philbin. It is Regis Philbin adapted easily to technical and scientific writing. It is Regis Philbin of your childhood memory of throwing dogs into fencerows. It is Regis Philbin evaluating fuel treatments of your blood. It is Regis Philbin killed by a word. Make-believe. Intricate guts of your mealy, mealy hallway bad-faith conversation (quit asking people, “What’s up?” or “How’s it going?” I implore you).


Speaking of that rag (now officially a rag since they took my story), I saw this interview in 12th Street today with Ander Monson.

I thought it a bit lame. I mean where were the eye-throttling questions, the insight readers need to know? I mean this was the most softball I’d watched since the Olympics, the ones with all the pollution. I’m wondering if Ander sent in the interview questions first and told them he would only answer those 14 questions (this is his usual method; I used to date his publicist).

So, anyway, since he’ll now apparently interview anywhere, I called him up for my own. I don’t do email interviews for the same reason I don’t eat cattle caged in tiny boxes and shot up with pig endorphins, Gatorade, and eyeballs. Ethics.

Sean (big, lion’s voice): I find it really fascinating you can sit there and use phrases like “dialectics in literature” and “soul of the world” and “refectory fable the way of Balzac” when discussing your work but have yet to mention nachos. You know, nachos.

Ander (dry cough): Actually I am not sitting. I am standing in the shallow end of my pool in Arizona and throwing discs into a disc golf basket I have perched atop an Octoilla cactus. And I do mention nachos in my writings. More than once. You’re one of those interviewers who haven’t even read the very work of the artist you question.

S: Let’s move on. If I was to say the essay form is a liar’s holiday, how would you respond?

A: If you bring a cat to a yak fight you better have one wonderful cat.

S: You are a member of several institutions: marriage, academia, Netflix, etc. Doesn’t the institution institutionalize the writer? Doesn’t it rip out the piss, guts, spleen, blood, sputum, sperm, urine of the writer’s very soul?

A: Piss and urine are redundant.

S: Would you like to tell your audience why your car was discontinued from production?

A: Two words: snow.


S: If you had only a week to live what would you write?

A: I wouldn’t write. I would Disc Holf.

S: Disc Holf?

A: Disc golf, on horseback.

S: What are you reading right now?

A: The tiny print on a very large check.

S: Really? What do you stand for?

A: Don’t drive your house, ok? Don’t live in your car. It’s that simple.

S: Finally, what do you say to all of those readers who have noticed a certain distillation in the ethical three-dimensional narrative of your writing, basically stating no difference between living, dead, and Latinate vocabulary of the one-line incomplete expressive sounds, the patterns, etc., specifically as it relates to the by-gone days of print culture, as you clearly address more than once?

(unfortunately, we lose our connection here)


Ander, during a sunny AZ day of “Disc Holf”