The douche endures despite my complaints
It’s not even noon and today’s blog-douche count is already at six. Seriously folks, there are other adjectives out there. Maybe I need to buy the Internet a thesaurus.
Hey, speaking of, when you were a kid did you ever read that book about the bunch of kids who got put into the lowest reading group (which never happened to me much to the chagrin of my cousin Wendy who was a whole grade ahead of me but always behind me in reading) and then one day they stole the thesaurus from the library and got all smart? I think at one point they got bubblegum all over the thesaurus and had to put it in the freezer and then chip off the gum.
Gosh, I wish I could remember the name of that book, because then I could buy it for the Internet and they too could learn the importance of word choice. I just feel like it’s my mission to save society from over-doucheage.
links for 2008-05-20
- village voice > Summer Guide: Our Favorite Writers Pick Their Favorite Obscure Books by ALEXANDER NAZARYAN (tags: books authors)
Serendipity finds my inbox
This is what my gmail inbox looks like right now. It cracks me up because Peabo was named after Peabo Bryson. It is only now that I realize the nickname is kind of erroneous, as she should probably be called James Ingram, but that’s not as good of a nickname.
Peabo got her name while brainstorming duets I could sing with that redheaded guy from one of our writing classes. While I was all about Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers or Stevie Nicks and Don Henley, ol’ Peabo busts out with, well, this:
I think we came to the conclusion that it was Linda Rondstadt and Peabo Bryson. We were wrong.
links for 2008-05-19
Three remarkable things
It’s 10:56 on a Sunday night, soon I will go to bed. This is remarkable because I haven’t gone to bed at 10:56 on a Sunday night in probably 20 years. I’m going to bed because I am plum tuckered out. I drank too much tonight and last night too, and I drank too much on Thursday night. This is remarkable because I have not drank too much on three nights in one week for about 10 years.
I will tell you one more remarkable thing before I go to bed and read the new book that is tickling my fancy called, well, I can’t remember what it is called. I thought it was called The Secret Life of Great Authors but googling didn’t get me anywhere. Regardless of my inability to remember the title, the book is of the fancy tickling variety. This means that tomorrow when I am well-rested and rehydrated I am going to tell you all about my love affair with Edgar Allan Poe. Yes, it’s a little somethin somethin for you to look forward to.
And another thing, this is that other remarkable thing I warned you about, I started writing in a paper journal again, you know the old-fashioned way. I love it. No, I LOVE IT — all caps. This is remarkable because since I started iwilldare.com some eight years ago, I completely abandoned the paper and the pen method of saying stuff. I tried intermittently to start up again, but mostly failed. Instead I started this sort of dialog with the faceless Internet (some of whom now have faces) and stopped writing to myself. This is really sad because there are things I tell my paper journal that I would never tell the Internet. It feels good. It feels better than good, it’s like hugging someone you haven’t seen in years good.
I’ve been a journaler since I was thirteen years old and I told that ballerina diary about how Jenni Trunnell was totally mad at me for talking to Mike Crosby and he wasn’t even her boyfriend and it was so unfair. GOD!
Okay, I am seriously going to bed. I got all wrapped up in reading old entries that were about old journal entries, because I am my own biggest fan.
This is why I’m always brain dead the day after Rock & Roll Bookclub
Not so charming man
Dear Morrissey,
I have decided that I am making it my life’s mission to insure that you never, ever get what you want this time or anytime. This is a light that should have gone out. I don’t even like you and here you are in my head for the last two or three days. Knock it off.
Love,
Jodi, this charming woman
The salon
It’s not often, or ever, that I get to meet authors who have published their short stories in The New Yorker. Yeah, John Updike, Alice Munro, Roddy Doyle, they don’t do too much hanging out in Minnesota, much less at Jags’ house. But last night, wow, we got lucky.
Abam, a classmate of ours in Vodo’s class, is a good friend of Uwem Akpan. Uwem’s had two stories in The New Yorker, and his book Say You’re One of Them is coming out June 9th.
The New Yorker stories are amazing. “Ex-mas Feast” is about a young boy in Nairobi who lives in a shack with his family, and whose oldest sister becomes a prostitute to pay his school tuition.
The second story, “My Parents’ Bedroom” is about the genocide in Rwanda. The story is told from the point of view of a nine-year-old girl and is so masterfully written that I believed everything young Monique believes. The story is beautiful and devastating. It even made me cry. It’s a great, great story.
So last night a handful of us gathered at Jags’ house to meet Uwem and hear him read. It was one of those mind-blowing nights that you can’t believe you’re actually having. Uwem is so friendly, and modest. I mean, come on THE NEW YORKER! He told us all about the process it took to get his story in The New Yorker, how they called to tell him it had been accepted and he was so stunned he could do nothing but just walk for miles to clear his head. He told us about the grueling fact-checking process and how when that first story finally came out he was alone in Milwaukee and his editor at The New Yorker called some her friend to take him out to celebrate.
Uwem also told us about all the doors this opened for him and what it’s like to get an agent and a publisher. Talking with him was so educational that I felt like I should have paid him.
And then he read a story from his collection called (i think) “What Language is That,” about two little girls in Ethiopia. The story is in second person and when he was done he talked about why he chose second person (the whole time I was casting sly glances at Abam, because she wrote a story in second person and I totally nailed her for it — as you know, I am not a fan of second person), because he wanted to try it. Which, you know, is a good enough reason I guess.
Then we spent the next ten minutes talking about the second person point of view, and can I just tell you that anytime you are with a group of people who will talk about the second person for ten minutes it’s just sheer, sheer heaven.
Darling Ones, it was just such an amazing night I wish you all could have been there. And that was only the beginning because after everyone left I spent hours talking with Jags’ and her divine husband David about books, movies, and music. Hell yes.
links for 2008-05-16
- MinnPost - David Brauer: Decimated: Strib to cut newsroom budget 10 percent (tags: strib newspapers)
Wah, wah, wah all the way home
The good thing about saying goodbye on a bright, sunshiny spring day is that you have sunglasses to hide your watering eyes. I gave Al the most perfect going away gift that there ever was, a gift so beautiful and suitable to the situation that it would require hundreds of words to tell you about its appropriateness.
“I’m going to hug you now,” Al said. “Before I start to cry.”
“There’s no reason to cry,” I said as I bent down to hug her.
“I know.” Her voice cracked. “It’s just . . .”
I turned around and walked toward Ruby, stopping as she opened her door to get into her car. “We’ll chat on Monday.”
“Yes, we have to.”
“We will, I promise,” I said. “Have a good trip.”
“Yeah. Have a good weekend.”
“Don’t cry,” I said.
“I won’t,” she said and ducked her head into the car.
“Chat with you Monday,” I shouted before I slammed Ruby’s door shut.
Then I cried all the way home.
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