Category Archives: disc golf

Jennifer Lopez Foot Lasagna Greg

I wrote a story about an old man who likes to kick things. I then swept out my tool shed and I ate lasagna and fed my leftover lasagna to the creek today. I tossed it into one of the deeper pools. The creek runs through my property, along the woods, runs and gurgles and brains the air. The creek goes shattered jar in the sun, a beautiful thing. I love the creek. Water makes me glow. I have a chair next to the creek and I like to sit in the chair and read and drink beer and listen to the creek guffawing at how it was here before me and will laugh eons on after I am dead.

But how did the creek respond to my lasagna?

* Crawdads went after the large noodles. One of my favorite crawdads, a large blue one I have named Diane, bullied many of the younger ones, often approaching and ripping a lasagna noodle from their claws. I have noticed small crawdads will pursue a larger one to (I guess?) try to get the food back, but once they get close they never really try. They are just like, “I’m going to get my food back! I’m not scared.” Then they approach the reality of the situation and freeze.

* The smallmouth bass preferred the cheese (a mix of ricotta, mozzarella, sprinkling of Parmesan). They darted in on silver shadows and plucked the cheese away, then whisked back into mossy under-hangs.

* The small sunfish mostly went after the tofu sausage.

* All animals ignored the fennel seeds.

* I saw one small yellow crawdad pick at a leaf of basil, but it then moved on to a large noodle.

* An unknown minnow picked at both the onion and slivers of garlic. It was having trouble holding itself in the current. A smallmouth bass then darted out and swallowed the minnow. Bam. Knife flash. So I basically baited a minnow into deeper water with my Italian seasonings. There it died.

* Only the river rocks took the parsley.

* Ditto the crushed tomatoes.

* The salt returned to the earth.

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This is how I drive a disc:

This is how Ander Monson drives a disc. He has a new book/site (he always has a new book/site!). Go read it and explode.

Damn. Pretty awesome follow-through, like he’s about to fly away. I would tell you more about my weekend playing disc golf in Wisconsin, but you would be bored liked corn and squash.

So.

This is how Mark Neely drives a disc!! You can find a new wicked Neely poem at Juked.

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If you know much about my writing, you know I have a “Drug Series.”

Example, Cocaine.

So. Here is Psilocybin over at Metazen.

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Rose Metal Press has an interview here, and they mention Eggs won a design award.

Holy shit. Very cool. If you want to buy Eggs, go click that link up top right and read some flash fiction or something, yo. Yo.

[I feel like a paper bag right now.]

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New Word Riot, motherfuckers!! I myself enjoyed:

1. Desire Cafe Sutra by John Kuligowski because it was Beat as hell, and John says he is a boring guy.

2. The Beige Futon by Greg Gerke.

This flash fiction fucking rocks. Check out this little smidgen:

Sitting in the subway, he laughed aloud and a man with a picture of a taco on his shirt didn’t seem too happy and he thought, Why can’t I laugh on the fucking subway? The one time I do a massive soft shell of guilt envelops me? So he closed his eyes and went back to the first moments, but the moments had changed. He was alone with their futon and it was dark and rainy.

That’s how you’re supposed to do it. Scene to action to physical now to trigger to thought to flashback. Pay attention all you psychos who say you want to write. Here’s a technique for you. Read it ten times or stop trying/whining.

her saying she’d still love him forever though she was leaving him for someone less neurotic.

Oh man, situation and characterization. I’ll be teaching this one to the kiddies in the fall, and that means I like/like/like it, and it’s also lame for me to say so, because I am so academia, no? No. I liked it first because it moved me. I liked it 8 more times for the same reason. I liked it the 9th and 10th time because this flash fiction is technical as a green Cadillac and I will drive it all over my students’ desks and times and haircuts and lollygags of structural play/room/lives.

3. Peter Schwartz interview.

This collection took me a few years to write. During that time I spent most of my time in my room. I had no real (meaning not just online or voice) relationships and sunk into the loneliness that comes from being that alone. There’s also the fact that I’m a bit haunted (see: ‘ABCs of loss’) but the truth is that my astronaut training program is simply not complete. You were right, sometimes I am beaten, but I think ultimately I will overcome this shit.

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I like to mow the yard. I like to see the grass fall in lines. To see a thing done. Sometime I feel black horses at my back, like alongside or gaining, but I have never heard their hooves while mowing the yard. So that’s something.

S

wigleaf 50 Jensen Beach, ACE disc golf, Harvey Pekar Glows Ball State

Harvey Pekar features his Ball State visit in his latest comic. Pretty cool.

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wigleaf Top 50 is out.

Excellent forward by Scott.

Excellent introduction by Brian Evenson

Today, let’s snare/share “Family” by Jensen Beach.

Someone suggested swimming and someone else said that in this weather all we need is another incident. Someone recalled that there was an expression that perfectly explained this very moment.

This opening is a stirring, a crackling (surely, we are due an “incident” soon) and also a cosmos, a shard-world of a larger one, the world of family.

Someone said that they’d read an article on the Internet about this topic and someone else said that, well then of course it’s true.

Truth. Internet as family, family as Internet: Information. Who to trust? What to say? What to share? How long does it remain, the things we write and say and don’t say–the things we whisper into our coffee mugs/clenched teeth/night.

Craft: Anaphora: The deliberate repetition of a word or phrase at the beginning of several successive verses, clauses, or paragraphs

“Someone”

“Someone”

“Someone”

Someone struggled to hold on until someone else suggested that maybe lunch should be served, which turned the subject to food, which as usual had a calming effect.

Food, sure. Or we could discuss sports. Or weather. Or clothing. Or we could pass around photos–as one dimensional as anything, as staged lie–or stare glossy-eyed into our Smart Phones, or we could find all sorts of activities, as a family, intended to assure, to make certain, that we say Nothing.

“These sure are good potatoes.”

Hummmmmmmmmmmmm

“The rain is going to go below us” (A doubling technique–stare into radar on phone, intimate a necessity [I am the one who checks the weather for the family], do nothing.)

Someone said that as a family we’re always forgetting important details, and someone else said, do you mean forgetting or ignoring?

Indeed. Families choose what they forget. Or remember. Unearth. Bury.

And “Someone” works well here. We don’t choose our families. Or if to have them. We are someone. They are someone. Close, far, near, distant. With us. Without us.

This piece dances and swirls around the dangerous gaps, the precipices of family. The repetition brings weight, brings a cadence, as I said, a dance. But it is fitful. Something is about to seize, in the subtext. Somehow I see all the flickering corners of this gathering, as the storm rolls overhead, as the Others stare out the rain-streaked window. Someone is in the bathroom for way too long. Someone is upstairs napping. Someone runs an errand, simply to escape. Someone is laughing way too loud, at anything. Someone hasn’t had a good laugh a single day of their life. Someone has a bottle of beer stuck down their boxer shorts. Most everyone is medicated in some way, and aren’t there so many methods? Someone is out in the yard, on the ground, mouth open gasping rain.

This is an odd piece, Jensen Beach. Odd.

Like family. So.

Someone is impressed.

Your reader.

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ACE at Honey Hollow. Full Peru disc post here for those that glow disc (and why don’t you?)

S

10k All Eating the Singing Corn Dogs

I caterwhomped at 5:30. The air was blue. Like the blue of juxtaposition. Outside no crickets did _______. I might have sensed a bird but is this a Murakami story? No. What if I threw in a talking monkey? No. Juxtaposition. What is that? Clive, tell us.

Clive: “You throe one thing than another you end up with a third lose thing that is different that the first two things once the right time passes. Like when I make beer at the house.”

Thank you, Clive.

Mark picked me up to go try the 10k. We drove to Indy.

I said, “Mark, you used to always get lost but now you have GPS and never get lost.”

(Mark’s GPS voice is this sexy Australian. It made me want to meet her and play Scrabble in some cafe in Guam.)

I said, “We are going to run this motherfucking 10k.” Or something like that. Something from the throat and heart and left foot.

The day dawned sunny/cold, little wind. I would say the day was like a bleeding fish.

Why did the Indiana State Museum charge us for parking? You don’t charge runners for parking. I felt bad since I didn’t have any money and so Mark had to pay $4. That breaks a driving etiquette rule, folks. The person NOT DRIVING pays for parking. That’s obvious. So I felt badly about that one.

ON YOUR MARKS GET SET GO!!!

I tucked into some fast ones, dropped hammer at 3-5, reeled in some folks. Finished arms pumping like a goat.

After I finished I cheered Mark home. I yelled, “Come on, Mark!” He finished strong. I like to see a runner finish strong, that attitude, like, “Not only I am going to finish this race, but I OWN this race!”

You can look up results here if you are just bored.

Mark ran his first 10k. He finished 235 out of 1700. I am/was proud of Mark. He ran the race in 50:40.

I ran my many-teenth 10k. I finished 11th out of 1700. I am/was proud of me. I ran the race in 38: 07.

After the race we played Disc Golf.

Then I went with some friends and ate a metric ton of Japanese food and drank a metric ton of sake. Here the debris. I like photos of debris. Wait, the debris photos were lame like dog collars. Ok, what about during the glutton?

I look at this and think:

1.) I need a haircut. I look scruffy and/or freakish.

2.) My two year old is on an iphone. At two years old!!!

WTF?

(Hi, I’m two and cannot interact with humans, la-de-la….)

Cute kid though…

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Today’s mail!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Oh my. Disc nerd alert.

(Holy shit check out this Crystal Z Buzz!!!!!)

Crystal Z Buzz

Crystal Z Buzz

Crystal Z Buzz

I’ll throw one like Tim Donaghy. I mean throw it FAR.

[My favorite sushi was the yellow tuna. I can’t explain that color of yellow. Uh, Clive…

Clive: “Mee maws hands. They shake like that the sky this man painted. I remember the highway said they would buy so much of maws land for the big Dysberg out there to the airport and needed dirt would make her a pretty pond but she said go strait to hell. Then they just come back anyway. Grandpa said they had domane. They never built that pond neither.”

Thank you, Clive.]

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I need to go run 20 miles today.

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Ever year I try to win this flash fiction contest where you get a case of beer. For two years I have been a finalist. This year? Finalist again, but no suds.

Cellstories featured my Elvis/cocaine story. Thanks.

The Red Room is out. I am in there. It be sweet like Book Fairs and muddy shoes.

Red Room full of Bill Kushner, Jayne Pupek, Maurice Oliver, Lewis Warsh, Changming Yuan, Ruth Altmann, Stephanie Gray, Nicole Cartwright Denison, Leonard Gontarek, Andrew Mossin, Lydia Cortes, Lynn Levin, Meg Pokrass, Elizabeth Thorpe, Miriam Kotzin, John Grey, John Vick, others.

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Odd little story by S.H. Gall over at decomp. Good work with tone, with wistful thought, with brick lodged in the head. Also S.H. Gall is a cool name.

Memphis story! Alex Pollack at Hobart. Sweetness. Ah, Libertyland, the memories…

The man references the Zippin Pippin! Well done, sir. (Alex blog here)

“You’ll buy a funnel cake,” Jessica says, “take two bites, say it’s too sweet like you always say, and throw it away like you always do.” She’s mad about last night, when I microwaved a hot dog wrapped in tinfoil; it left a blur of electric blue and a trail of flames.

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I have these business ideas. Like today, I was thinking, “Singing corn dog.” A singing corn dog. People like corn dogs and they certainly like music. It would be like a corn dog ipod or something. You would carry it proudly like a torch, all the while your favorite song drifting on the air like corn dog essence, like fried oil or fried pig or fried corn flour tunes of glow. I think it’s a winner idea.

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Late at night I watched Amy Winehouse London 2008 in HD. Never do that. She was drinking beer and slurring songs and picking her nose and wrecked out her wonderful mind. I couldn’t imagine being in that audience. Most interesting were the looks of all the professionals dancing and playing instruments behind her. It was like the loud kid in class who sits on the front row and shouts out all these crazy answers and the kid never gets that EVERYONE BEHIND YOU IS STARING AT YOUR HEAD IN A WEIRD WAY.

The musicians has this look like, “Play your instrument, smile, don’t notice the slurring, stumbling singer. Don’t notice. I need this paycheck.”

You want some of me?

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Clive, what do you think of farming?

Clive: “He says a farmer gets it bad both ways. A farmer sells the beans and corn for what people say . The farmer buy the seed for what the people say. Thats how he means both ways. Aint  no reply my grandpa says. A man can’t punch a big system. Grab it down to normal size.”

OK, Clive, getting all political!

Love you, man.

S

Yasso Disc Review

Yesterday I did a Yasso that made my legs eat their father. 13 X 800.

4 X 6:00 mile pace     4 X 5:56 mile pace.    2 X 5:52 mile pace.    2 X 5:45 mile pace.    Last 800 at 5:30 mile pace.

I felt proud afterward. I actually gave myself a pat on the back. I physically patted my own back. This might be like going 3rd person. Like if I said, “Sean ran well today. Sean gave 110 percent out there.”

Reporter: What about the hotel room in Guam?

Sean: Sean thinks, It is what it is. I mean it’s a war out there and I apologize for comparing marathon training to war. Go freedom, Sean thinks.

Reporter: Ha, ha, ha. (Fake laugh to suck up to Sean.)

Problem is a workout like this rips the ham, makes the L foot like a Tokyo. So today I am hobbling. OLD. So was the YASSO useful if I now have to rest 2 days before my next intense workout? Are two moderate workouts in 3 days better than 2 wicked workouts in 4? I don’t know. We’ll see, maybe on marathon day.

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Disc Golf Station said, “Hey Sean, if we send you a few disc for free will you review them?”

Sean said, “Sure, but it is snowy like metal lids and I am possibly suffering Seasonal Affective Disorder and the snow did I mention the snow sitting on the forehead of Muncie Indiana like a stack of photos of a ceramic toilet or something equally repulsive/cold.”

Discraft FLX Drone

This disc be overstable. Like 2.6 overstable. What does that mean? It means you could throw it forward, wait and whistle a bit, and it might boomerang all the way around and hit you in the ass. You need an arm like Madonna for this baby. Not bad for Muncie, Indiana. Why? Tacky grip for the sleet/rain. Head-winds. This disc will not go donut on you, no turnovers. This disc plays tight in the cold. This is real plastic. I get the feeling you could leave ESP FLX plastic at the bottom of a creek and fetch it out 50 years later and it still be flying like thundering clops of a barrel racer. It is a serious plastic. I suggest throwing this disc into gales. I suggest you have an oily, strong arm like two day old coffee. Might also be a good tech disc, a bender, when you need to shape your shot like mascara around a pine forest or a phone-booth. If you are new to D golf, or squirrel-armed, this disc is going to go 90 degree on you, I mean geometric. So there you have it, the Drone. Go throw now.

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Fuck you February.

Blizzard Ass

How is it going? Oh, fine, just dandy. I am a pink boom box of icecream truck muzak, caught in a loop. I need an axe and a bathroom door, etc. This is what my disc basket in the backyard looks like…

I understand winter like I understand death. I am a southerner at heart. Where are the bocce balls and the V & Ts? I must move my legs and heart, the gristly muscle. If I don’t move I will tumble into profound sad. My head will go knuckles gripping a wheelchair wheel. Resigned. So luckily I have a treadmill. Put in a nice tempo run today. I am training for the Nashville marathon in April, then I am officially running a race so difficult the conditions are repeated nowhere else in the planet we call Earth. Seriously. More details later.

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I was thinking I might have the Seinfeld large wallet thing (script here) going on…but see I don’t want leather because of the cow thing and those hemp wallets are for stoners and they fall apart in 14 days and so I had to go with Kavu, a real company, an outdoors way, I mean not as flaky, a rugged thing. But it feels like I am carrying an unabridged thesaurus in my back pocket. It hurts my ass sometimes. Well, we all must sacrifice.

(quarter used for reference to size)

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I had some wriitng stuff to talk about but think I put it all recently on HTML Giant. So go there, I guess. I told some people I know to go there recently and they said, “I am scared of that site!” I mean it intimidates them, the comments especially. I get that. Some people who comment on that site are scholars and way-readers and seriously know their shit. They are pretty aggressive at times, but I kind of enjoy the play. I certainly enjoy their minds. But you got to just wade in, is how I feel. I’m no scholar, not in the real sense, a funny thing to say for a prof, no? But I try. I’m a scholar of pedagogy more than writing, I suppose. I mean I want to be the best teacher I can be, that is serious. The writing is so mysterious. I learn every day. That is the good thing. I hope I can say that forever.

(Update: The more I think about this, the more I think I am wrong, about scholarship. Years of teaching CW, of reading CW texts, of watching others, this is a form of scholarship in a discipline. I suppose I mean a literary scholar, a true critic. Then again, I am not a literature prof, and remember that my undergraduate training was in nursing–I am also an RN. So. I suppose I mean I view a text from its basement, not from above. I try to see its wiring and whatnot, its craft, maybe to carry into the classroom. I am certainly one of those who have trouble just “reading” a book, because I’ve been teaching too long. I stop and take apart. I have heard movie people (in whatever job in the industry) do the same things with movies. They are watching the film, but one part of their mind if already predicting the structure, labeling the shot, etc.

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Hey, William Carlos Williams–shove it!

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Have been reading a ton. Now onto Lucy Corin book. Very good stuff, and Flash mixed in, what I like. Report later…

glad to be on a reading jag.

blizzard!

Makes me feel like a rolled down stocking. Or a cheekful of claw.