I won a grant at my work. Writing the grant felt like wrestling a mosquito. I guess you think wrestling a mosquito is no big deal, but, like all of us, you are looking at the world through bird-slam (your own) lenses. You are trying to fold paper 14 times in half (impossible), but you can’t see the futility. The mosquito lurks, is hell to slam down and headlock, is actually the world’s deadliest animal, killing over two million humans a year.
The shark? 12 is about average. 20 would be a great year for the shark.
2 million versus 20…Well, now you learned something.
BSU buys out my class so I can write a flash fiction collection. Ok. I will do that, sir. BSU is great that way. They give you $$$ for ideas. I have to write the book, yes? I am the sound of haze now.
Do you know what having a class bought out means to a professor? Let’ s put it this way. Say, theoretically, you work selling a mechanical cone that turns the ice cream for lazy people, so they don’t have to twist their own hand, thus exhausting them, burning unnecessary calories, tempting carpal tunnel, all that. OK, great product, obviously. So you are busy selling! And one day your boss, Mr. Harvey Amsterdam, pulls you into his office and says, “Worm (only people named Worm would sell this particular item), take Friday off for the next 6 months. Show up 4 days a week, but we’ll give you your usual salary. Spend Friday playing disc golf or gambling on horses or reading a river for smallmouth bass or even penning a collection of flash fiction about every drug–legal or otherwise–used regularly in society today. Are you OK with that?”
Worm is OK with that, sir!!
(OK it might not be that awesome, but close–but professors have crazy new tasks, duties that pop up like sudden rain clouds. I’m just saying it’s a relief. It cools things down a little, like a, uh, rain cloud.)
Yes, D and I got our Sedaris tickets today. Word to your comical/Seinfeld type essay about nothing but implying the nothing moments of life have significance in the attentive writer’s hands!
And D and I will see him read, but I would actually like “contact” at these prices, a signed book, a photo. I mean come on, David. This is Muncie, Indiana, not France (I have no fucking idea what that means.). I really just want to hear his weird squeaky Mike Tyson/Jackson voice in person. And to hug him. To squeeze the irony from his bones.
I have not paid a ticket to see a live reading in ages. The last one I ate sushi and got drunk on Sake and showed up at Dave Eggers and yelled out, “Where is Toph?”
(the link above not so Toph, but a great read after 3 beers.)
Dave pauses, then goes kinda tight voice: “What is this, a revolution?” (lame response, no one laughed). Then Eggers changes tone, calm; he says, “Toph is in the Coast Guard. He’s doing fine.” (perfectly cool response; people settled into their seats well after that one, hit their respective flasks).
“I don’t really believe in progress—I don’t think I am getting better or worse. I’m just different moment to moment to moment.”
(I find this interview amazing)
This next part will interest no one. If you do not play disc golf, ignore. (Or start playing. The game is actually better–long term–than heroin.)
But, one day last summer, I lost my # 1 utility disc, meaning my get-out-of-trouble disc. I threw it into the cold heart of a deep lake. I went for it, and lost, but at least I went for it (I believe we regret what we do not do in life, not what we do). But was this an exception? It hurt me for months. It went Canada on the shrubbery of my heart. I couldn’t replace this disc! I tried out so many impostors. They sucked. They flew like a bandaged boil. I was losing a stroke per round, maybe 2, 3, 4 on technical courses.
That one disc was rare, a KC pro 11X TeeBird. I mean it will cost you…
Happy St.Patrick’s Day to all. I don’t really get a holiday where people drink a lot of beer. I don’t even really get beer. But whatever.