revisions of sam
****I have taken out the picture of Sam (actually I couldn't figure out how to delete it, so I just minimized the fuck out of it) because, honestly, I couldn't even stand looking at it anymore. Here is what appears to be his official website. It's got better pictures and the one of him in the blankets is really pretty cute. http://samugliestdog.com/ ****So, this is Sam, a Chinese Crested Hairless. He is the three time recipient of the World's Ugliest Dog competition at the Sonoma-Marin Fair in Calif. Sam
is 15 years old, has congestive heart failure, liver and kidney problems, a "hernia lump" on his back, cataracts in both eyes, moles running down his snout, and blackheads across the whole of his wrinkled, grey-brown body. Chauncey S. showed me this picture about a week ago (he claims to have had a personal run-in with Mr. Sam) and I have not been able to get it out of my head. My question: Am I the only one who's just crazy about this fucking pooch? Am I the only one who would love to have a little Sam laying next to me on the couch while I read a good book? You can't see it so good in this picture, but he's got fucked-up long nails...Am I the only one who'd love to hear that beautiful
clack, clack, clacking across the hardwood when I get home from a hard day at work. And to have the little guy look up at me with that look in his blind-ass eyes that says
I Love You, Papa. And to hear the sound he makes when he's excited,
Blaaaaaaaghhh. Oh, Sam, if you were mine I would treat you right. I would not make you compete anymore, you gorgeous gremlin. No glory would you have to chase, only the squirrels and rabbits. I would punch those men and women who point and laugh. I would kick those children who scream in horror. Oh, Sam, come travel the world with me and I promise that I will scratch that itch behind your ear. For you would be getting the itch that eludes me, the one I can never reach by myself, the one right on the small of my soul.
Not Everyone Can Relate
Thoughts & Thinkings from Over There, Ohio:
Ohio heat's like Iowa heat. Only there are hills here in the way of the mirages. If it can be said we live where our belongings reside, I'm now a resident of Beechmont Storage, where I'll get a month free because the owner's son slept on my couch one night in 2002. And it is from nearby unit 611 that I write: As I U-hauled, I was thinking around on stories that seem to me fashioned to feel quickly ended even if they aren't - we're headed out before we knew we were in there. Almost all of the stories in Ann Beattie's collection, Where You'll Find Me, are fast like this. And a number of Mary Robison's too. (Tell Me, for example, which is a collection of 30 fast-ass stories.) The Junot Diaz collection, Drown, reminded me that not all fast-ass stories are fast-ass in quite the same way. "Drown," for example, is paced slowly. It's a bit of a meanderer. But I leave that story with the same feeling: that I could have stayed, I would have stayed, I'd have liked to have stayed. And then there is Lydia Davis, the quickest of the guns. Almost No Memory is a book for which I've imagined a series of other titles, all of them including the words Almost and No and Idea. It strikes me that this approach (the quickie) is one that would not fly in workshop, but that isn't my concern. I'm stuck wondering why it flies with me. These four books are four of my favorites, though I don't feel satisfied by any of them. Maybe that is what I am like. Or maybe it's about the grace involved in the compression of a story's anxiety. Or, a fear of commitment. Not something, apparently, you get to the bottom of in a ten hour haul.
There's this Devendra Banhart lyric, "Not everyone can relate to what you and I appreciate." That's something else I've been thinking about. As in, what to think about anonymous's and the growing frequency of their angry visits to the blog. A real pack of charmers.
death watch, 2005
in town, it feels like some kind of vigil. it's like the few of us who are still here burning candles in the ped mall and singing folk songs--a futile gesture in the face of loss. one by one, everybody is leaving or has already gone. i've been so mopey lately. i guess i miss you guys already, which is funny because i didn't like most of you.
:p yeah, yeah. bigger and better things, etc. etc. on beyond zebra. i'm sure all who desire will go on to great success in their chosen endeavors, but for the moment, i just feel preemptively lonely. it's like on august 1, everyone falls off the edge of the world. also, the idea of reentering the work force terrifies me. i was never a member in good standing in the first place.
p.s.
download jermaine dupri's "gotta getcha." booty-shake helps ease the pain.
"breakin it down, like we in bed/
gotta nigga spendin' up all his bread/
bendin' over to the front/
lookin back at me like whatchu want?"
the video features a trannie-fied janet jackson dressed up like the world's oldest and naughtiest school girl.
Former fearless leader
Somewhat in the spirit of Jo's post, I thought I'd call your attention to Jim Hynes'
piece in Salon about reading
Anna Karenina for the first time. It's a part of Salon’s summer school series, where authors read cannonical books they think they should have read ages ago and comment on them. Jim liked Anna K, which is a relief. If he hadn't I would have needed to find a way to unlearn everything he taught last semester, as it's one of my favorites. The series itself is engaging, and has made me feel both less guilty (big confession) about having never read
The Wapshot Chronicle, and less likely to.
In other news, I'll be in Iowa City this week. My alcohol tolerance has diminished in recent months, so I should be really fun, really quickly. If anyone's still around and is interested in coming out to play, call or email.
You are Like a Hurricane...
In which I admit to preferring the Roxy Music version to the Neil Young original.
Anywho, I have now become some sort of official Floridian, having survived a hurricane.
As an aside, almost all of this year's hurricane names have some connection to my ex-wife's family. Coincidence? I think not.
http://www.fema.gov/kids/hunames3.htm. Sadly, there is no Ophelia in the family.
On Thursday, ominous automatic signs (the ones that usually say Left Lane Closed when they are on I-80) started popping up around town: "Are You Prepared?" It was like that movie "On the Beach" where everyone committed suicide before the nuclear fallout could kill them--"There is Still Time, Brother."
And I met one of my neighbors last week. Who was an ass. He knocked on my door at 8AM Monday and asked when the moving truck would be gone. The moving truck that had just arrived.
Now, if I were writing a short story, it would be too neat to tell you that said neighbor's house looks like a backwoods shack decorated by John Boorman (look up obscure film reference, please) or that the neighbor's wife told me this morning that she'd just gotten the parrot back from the bird whisperer. But I would really get crucified for the ending, in which the neighbor's house gets smashed by a falling tree.
It nearly killed the parrot, but latest reports from the whisperer indicate that the parrot is a remarkably strong bird, and will pull through.
Meanwhile, after a couple of hours of cleanup, the pool is now open for business.
In other news, apparently PhD programs require you to take a whole bunch of literature classes.
A Good Place
Our trusty site-meter informs us that we're receiving about 1,000 visits a week. Pretty good for a pretty new blog, I'd imagine. I feel obliged to offer our visitors something new to read every day or two. I don't want to be the one who jumps in front of the camera at every turn, but I'll volunteer when it's needed.
I therefore offer you this: Your Neighborhood Auto Center
I knew I needed an oil change and a tire rotation. There was the matter of finding a lift in town that wouldn't mar my ridiculous rocket-like runners and the matter of my feeling broke. After much phoning and deliberation, I went with Car-X. This is one anecdote in a life littered with anecdotes which demonstrate my capacity to understand things about life (such as, garages take advantage of women/men who appear "womanly" in their car knowledge) and to believe them as happening on another plane of existence entirely. The Realm of the Blonde/Dick Jokes, for example. Or, the World According to the Dads. I was not shocked, then, to discover that Car-X tried to sell me a battery for $130 + $69 labor that I in no way needed. But I was also utterly shocked. Floored, in fact. "Really?" I thought. "Car-X really does this?" And then there was the exchange I had with the mechanic who thought he could sell me on the battery after I'd already declined on it. He stuck his finger in my face and said, "Lady, you better get that battery out of there." And then (I almost hate to include this detail) he farted. A highly audible fart. One that raised more than two eyebrows in the room. He stormed out and I paid for my Car-X Package. When I got home I realized that they had not in fact fulfilled the Package as outlined on their laminated cards. I paid for fluids! Fluids! I am now looking at "The Car-X Promise." Two items catch my attention. "We will never sell you anything you don't need" and "Our most important goal is your satisfaction." And I'm thinking about this rage I have. It isn't entirely about the fact that the Car-X people tried to take advantage of another woman/man with only "womanly" knowledge. It has something maybe to do with the fact that even though I knew this would happen, it happened. It's the that's-so-predictable phenomenon. I realize myself as an individual highly susceptible to this experience. It's as though this shit is attracted to me like shit's apparently attracted to Chauncey's closet. Maybe we should begin an installation on this blog. Call it Chauncey's Closet. It could be, as my brother often phrases it, a good place to cut it.
to the person(s) who shit in my closet..
to the person(s) who shit in my closet on friday, july 1, 2005:
you sneak-shitter, you. dookey salter. feces pranker.
fine, fine. i had the party, so i guess to you it means i am responsible for everything that happened here that night. ridiculous. most people take hospitality in the spirit in which is extended: as a gift. i gave you a nice party and you shit all over it. for real.
i just want you to know that i had already removed the proof-of- purchase from the tivo box you shit in. i was keeping the box for my convenience when moving next month. there are other boxes i can use, dung hider. you're not going to keep me from moving, if that's your game.
your plan worked, devil crapper. i don't know how you did your work in a full house during a raging after hours, but you shit fast and you stashed well. for two days i could not identify the source of the odor. i concocted wild fantasies about badgers coming through holes in the ceiling to shit in hidden corners. i feared for the life of unlucky rodents. i prayed a lot. but when i finally decided to take the dresser out of the closet, take all the boxes stacked behind it out and examine the contents of each, i finally found your calling card, scat monkey. at first, i felt relief to finally know at last what that fucking smell was. but now i am pissed. a little trick is an easy hit, but a closet crap is crushing.
was it an emergency and you couldn't get to the toilet in time? it seems unlikely. Some kind of turd stork or shit fairy that visits in the night? are you holding some grudge against me, poop absconder? well, you got me good. there's no denying. but when i find out who you are, no tivo box will be able to hold all the shit that is going to rain down on you, my friend. i don't know what kind of sick fuck you are, but i hope you have a turd-proof umbrella.
Ointment in the Fly
At some point in the last few months, I decided to poke around the internet, see what I could see about agents. Generally, I mean. And somewhere in my poking, I discovered this thing. I want to say that I'm not aiming to pass judgment. I only wanted to share: "Gerald" has written a novel. He has also undertaken to contact "around 11,000 media, movie, and publishing people" in pursuit of publication. You may recognize many of the agents on his lists. He has kindly included (full-text) installments of the e-mail exchanges he has shared with many of them. That's where I get interested. Here's an excerpt:
Dear Claudia: Since I haven't heard from you in a couple months, I presume you're not utterly enraptured with the idea of representing my stuff. I don't have a problem with that. I must also presume, however, that you lack the common courtesy to have let me know that you're not utterly enraptured with the idea of representing my stuff. That sort of ill-mannered arrogance and imperiousness has a tendency to catch up with a person in the long run. It doesn't bother me, particularly, I'm used to it, but, for your sake, you might want to try to be a little more considerate in the future. Thanks again.
Gerald is capable of much more vivid language in response to the agents who contact him or fail to contact him. At some point, the agents begin to realize that their e-mails are appearing on a website - a feathering out, something meta. At some other point, Gerald has some realizations of his own.
This is the point at which we've arrived.
Read them all here: http://everyonewhosanyone.com/agus1.html
ian is too shy
ian is too shy to tell you himself, but he has a story up at an online journal called ducts.
check it out.
What It's Like
It's pretty nice out today in Iowa City, as you can see. And this seems a good time to announce a new feature on the blog: Audioblogger. I myself am far too skittish to leave an audio post, but I can imagine that for some of you, this presents an interesting possibility. Think of the songs you could sing.
It's really quite simple. You dial a number and then enter some passwords. I'm happy to distribute the passwords, but I guess I'll have to do that by e-mail, as making them public could result in something less than good.
To those of you who are new visitors, if you'd like to join the blog, you must do only this: e-mail me.
is 15 years old, has congestive heart failure, liver and kidney problems, a "hernia lump" on his back, cataracts in both eyes, moles running down his snout, and blackheads across the whole of his wrinkled, grey-brown body. Chauncey S. showed me this picture about a week ago (he claims to have had a personal run-in with Mr. Sam) and I have not been able to get it out of my head. My question: Am I the only one who's just crazy about this fucking pooch? Am I the only one who would love to have a little Sam laying next to me on the couch while I read a good book? You can't see it so good in this picture, but he's got fucked-up long nails...Am I the only one who'd love to hear that beautiful clack, clack, clacking across the hardwood when I get home from a hard day at work. And to have the little guy look up at me with that look in his blind-ass eyes that says I Love You, Papa. And to hear the sound he makes when he's excited, Blaaaaaaaghhh. Oh, Sam, if you were mine I would treat you right. I would not make you compete anymore, you gorgeous gremlin. No glory would you have to chase, only the squirrels and rabbits. I would punch those men and women who point and laugh. I would kick those children who scream in horror. Oh, Sam, come travel the world with me and I promise that I will scratch that itch behind your ear. For you would be getting the itch that eludes me, the one I can never reach by myself, the one right on the small of my soul.
