Stars! They're not like Us!

Not too long ago, I was strolling through Shoe Carnival when I came across an adult woman and her mother. I assume they were related. In my mind they were. The mother was uncertain about a pair of shoes the daughter kept pushing at her.

"They're just like the ones you have on, except they have a slightly higher heel. God."

The mother seemed nervous about disagreeing with this opinion. "What would I wear them with?"

"You would wear them," the daughter said, continuing in the key of DUH, "with pants like those. Or your black skirt. Or pretty much anything you own. They're black shoes."

The tone was so whiny, so rudely mean, I had to get away from them. I couldn't take it anymore. I don't particularly love shopping anyway, but the thing that makes it worse? OTHER PEOPLE. People who walk slowly, touching every item they see. People who bump into you or act like you're the one walking too slow, when in fact you are locomoting at a perfectly reasonable pace. People who talk to their mousy mothers as if they are stupid, and not the person who fed them rice cereal and taught them to clap their hands and read books and comforted them when they were sad and...oh, lightbulb! aha! eureka! I see where this reaction is coming from. Might just have something to do with the extra dollop of estrogen coursing through my veins.

Anyway. Later, mimicking the shoe store scene for my husband, complete with parental disrespect, he asked, "Are the Kardashians in Indianapolis?"

Which made me think: I bet no Kardashian has ever set foot in a Shoe Carnival. And the thought of one of them, any of them, watching the Bargain Wheel spin 'round and 'round cracked me up for a good long while.

My local Shoe Carnival, or as we called it, the Shoe Zoo, used to be located by a Denny's, where we youths would loiter for hours on end, spending something like $3.99 apiece for a Grand Slam breakfast at midnight. The Shoe Zoo has since moved down the street to a larger location, near a Perkins Restaurant. They always kicked us out of Perkins after a certain amount of time. Like, an hour.

Shoe Zoo, Denny's and Perkins: all star-free zones.

Stars! They're Not Like Us!

Culture bender

My traditional end of semester ritual involves going on a culture bender: catching up on movies, books, and music that I missed out on during the hectic academic term.

These are the best benders, and I'm not just saying that because I'm pregnant with baby #2 and not drinking. The hangover from a culture bender isn't physical but mental, and pleasantly so. Instead of headache, there are echoes of the art that other people made, bouncing around in the brain, perhaps inspiring new art. Inspiring new thoughts, at the very least, and that's a pretty good deal, especially from a DVD or book borrowed from the library.

The books I purchased were cheaper than a bender bar tab, too. At least I think so. I really don't recall, Senator. I do know that a sixer of nonalcoholic Beck's costs something like $6.99 and tastes like skunk. I may have been overheard muttering "Skunk it up" in the kitchen the other day, followed by the resigned clink of a bottle cap.

So: movies. For your light science fiction needs, let me recommend Super 8 and Another Earth.

I liked the former quite a bit, but the latter: whoa emm gee. Would you think me over the top if I called it life-changing? It was life changing. If you imagine that your life is perfectly fine the way it is and you cannot see room for a deeper understanding of humanity, then do not see this film. Plus it's gorgeously shot. And Mr. Littlejeans from Rushmore is in it. I have way more to say, but I'm working on a separate thing about it. To Be Announced.

Been reading like a madwoman, too. And writing and revising again. And feeling more like myself, aside from gestating another human. Which is wonderful in its own right. But you are no longer just yourself when there is someone growing inside you. Someone for whom you have given up coffee (kind of) and wheat beer (totally), who makes you off-balance when you stand up, who makes strangers smile because he (another boy!) pushes your belly out more each day. You are you and you aren't you. You know? People see you differently, and you are reminded: I am different. Suddenly I am thinking of my friend Barney, who does not like it when you use the second person. See what I did there, friend?

But I was talking about books, or meant to. A recent sampling includes The Singles by Meredith Goldstein: I was a couple years ahead of Meredith in college, who now writes the Love Letters column for the Boston Globe and just published her first novel. It follows a group of friends from our alma mater, Syracuse University, at a wedding where many of them attend solo. Tons of flashbacks to the 'Cuse, which I loved. Meredith remembers the brutal winters well. The Next Right Thing by Dan Barden: Dan is a professor at Butler University here in Indianapolis, and he wrote a noirish mystery with a twist. The protagonist is searching to understand the death of his AA sponsor, who'd been clean for years and overdosed in a So-Cal motel room. A page-turner, dark and funny and full of feeling. Ayiti by Roxane Gay: I finally met Roxane in person this spring when she read at Butler for the Pressgang launch party. "Aren't we Internet friends?" she asked sweetly when I introduced myself. Indeed we are, and for that I am glad. Her writing contains surprises every time. This collection of mostly short pieces about Haiti floored me. So do Roxane's essays at The Rumpus. You go check these out right now, or I'm telling.

We are disappearing and becoming pixels at this late (for me) hour. In the time it took me to write this, people in my feed posted 86,000 new tweets. My nosy Facebook sidebar that monitors our comings and goings and birthday tidings and snarky comments has disappeared -- has yours? I have a false new illusion of privacy, but probably something is just broken. The last things I viewed on Amazon were books and Gerber Lil' Crunchies snacks. I do not like where they put the apostrophe in that brand name.

Wanna blog?

I'm teaching a class on blogging at the Franklin Library on Saturday afternoon, sponsored by the Writers' Center of Indiana. A prime reason to update my blog! We are going to talk about all kinds of bloggish things, and write a few preliminary posts while we're at it.

It's the end of the semester, which means my brain is pudding, which also means I communicate best in not-so-cryptic musical messages.



I'm just writin' at ya. Totally different.

Aaaaaannd Feist. In concert. On Monday. Taking place in the same building but a different room is a performance by Yanni. I am a little concerned about the Yanni seepage from one venue to the other.



And while we're living vicariously, I would be happy to loan you the papers that need grading, so you may vicariously experience the thrill of grading for hours on end. Of teaching's many rewards, this is not even close to the top of the list.

Until soon, dear writers.

Almond cake

It's been raining all day, so I decided to bake. Took on a very involved almond cake recipe, well worth it as the house now smells delicious. One stage involved mixing sour cream and baking soda alone. I was like, whatevs, recipe, if you say so. Usually I just kind of freelance, but today I attempted exactness. It foamed like a cool science experiment, which is what baking is. The cake has about ten minutes left in the oven. And then imma eat the whole thing, minus a slice or two for sharing. If you're lucky.

It's not just cloudy outside. The Internet is making my head feel cloudy too, but the only way to put this thing there is to be here. It is the confluence of Engaged Celebrities and Tax-Evading Celebrities and Vest-Wearing Politicos and Politicos in Sunglasses and Secret Service Hijinks and Three Shot in Ohio Restaurant and What Happened to the Body and What Happened to the Defenseless Child and the Person I Used to Know's Frightening Drinking Habits and the Person I'm Getting to Know's Early Tragedy and the Opinions of Everyone Who Ever Lived Listed in One Convenient Place, Chronologically.

The baking took me out of that for awhile. And then I return.

I should do more baking.

Because what do I need to know about those things? Conversely, here and now on this page that isn't a page, what do you need to know about me?

Dudes. Doodlebugs. There is too much confusion and evasive conversation traveling through wires at high speeds. Absurdity, really. (As in my found poem, Beautiful, Embarrassing.) Things you cannot touch, yet still can feel, sometimes deeply. At least you can touch an almond cake. At least I will feel it in my stomach, before too long.

I am waiting on the beep-beep-beep that signals my Pavlovian rise from this chair and walk to the oven, where I will don oven mitts to reveal what hopefully is a luscious and perfect and delicious cake. The thing I would rather talk about at this particular moment than any of the other things above.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

One line in one minute

Today as part of a survey I was asked, What do you enjoy doing in your free time? And I easily answered, Oh, yoga and reading and walking and writing, and realized that I haven't been doing any of those things lately unless school-related (downward-facing dog grading papers?), and must remedy this immediately, like right now, hence this line.

This is not an AWP recap

Maybe you know this already: AWP is the Association of Writers and Writing Programs, and last week/weekend was its annual conference in Chicago. I could spend some time telling you about the panels and readings I went to, but chances are you were one of the 10,000 people there, too. And besides, I still need some time to process. To digest.

Which brings me to: while packing, I removed a sweater from my suitcase so as to make room for a big thing of Cheez-Its. I travel in style. I also devoured Giordano's pizza, a lovely basil/mozz/tomato flatbread sandwich from Cosi (the one chain that has yet to settle in Indy, apparently), and taro, spring rolls, and pad thai at Tamarind. Oh! Also had a pretty great cheeseburger with enormous pickle on the side at Buddy Guy's Legends, where my dearheart friend Sarah was performing, along with other writers who are musicians. Sarah is a co-founder of Octave Magazine. If you are musical, and a writer, then you should send them something.

There were many celebrities at AWP, too many to count. Writing celebrities, that is, which means the gathered throngs of writers were swooning, while US Weekly would have been checking its iPhone or looking over your shoulder while talking to you for more interesting faces. (Actually, writers do that, too.) I did not see movie stars Megan Fox or Shia LaBeouf at AWP, but handily, you can find them in my latest headline poem at Punchnel's: "What Shia LaBeouf Won't Do with Megan Fox."

Is it a continuation of my delusions that I hope somebody manages to get this to MF and SL for their reading pleasure? Have their people call my people. My people are 17 months old and are the boss of me and the rest of the universe. My people will answer the phone if given the chance, yell "HI!", and then hang up/press buttons for as long as allowed. Speaking of, the boss is napping, it's fake spring break (one school's off, one school's on), and I've got to get back to revising. It's going well, I think. It's happening in bits and pieces, fits and starts, dribs and drabs. Name your cliche for piecemeal. It's early March and I've got candy corn and that is excellent revision fuel. Sweet dreams, little lambs.

Dear Diary

Oh, Dear Diary, so much has happened lately that I don't know where to begin!

I shook dreamy Jimmy Fallon's hand at a taping of his show in Indy. He was here for the Super Bowl, along with a gazillion other people. I saw Patriots coach Bill Belichick riding on a bus. I saw Shaquille O'Neal in pink bikini bottoms, and Fitz and the Tantrums in nice blazers. I saw lots of other people on screens, even though they were a few miles away. Sometimes I like to keep my distance.

Diary, I have been lecturing to nearly 200 undergrads on Candide and grading up a storm. We talk about poetry next, then Kafka. Beetles! Allegory! Kafkaesque! I am, if you cannot tell, a little excited. The Hunger Games is also on the syllabus. Yes.

My sweet little toddler has been sick, diary, and boy have we had a hard winter. But he's healthy and cheerful now, and demanding a COOKIE after we let him have one at a Super Bowl party, where he kept saying MMM, COOKIE, MMM, and signing "more." He had never had a cookie before, nor had he ever said the word cookie. It was oatmeal chocolate chip. He ate three. Including half of one he ripped from my hand. Also he had his first chips. And a huge bowl of rigatoni. My boy did the Super Bowl up RIGHT. He may never eat a vegetable again, but hey.

Diary, I wrote another headline poem. This one's called "Astronauts answer YouTube questions from space," and it appears in Sweet. I think you will like it.

While we're on the subject of headline poems, lately I am meditating on Ezra Pound's assertion that poetry is news that stays news. The sentiment kind of blows my mind. Journalistic-literary-something-something worlds colliding.

I am, diary, a little tired.

But life is good. I am revising a certain thing to send back to a certain place. Did I just jinx it? NO. I am only telling you, diary, because I know I can trust you. But not with the specifics. Sorry, friend.

And I forgot to tell you, this is oldish news but hopefully news that stays news, but my short story "Resuscitation" came out in Blackbird a little while ago. This character, Shel, is one I kind of wonder about, still. What's she doing now? Maybe I need to find out.

Hugs and kisses,

Pre-united and it feels so good

Please join my obsession with the Bourne franchise of films as I pitch prequel ideas at Punchnel's. It is my irrational expectation that one of you, via six degrees of separation, will get this to Matt Damon.

Don't make Bourne come after you.

Spreadsheet No More! A tale of liberation.

In 2008-2009-2010, I have read 61 books, 70 books, and 40 books, respectively. I tallied my reading habits on nerdalicious spreadsheets, sharing and comparing with my readerly friends. We had some great conversations over those lists, didn't we, friends? Didn't we?

Lookit. I wimped out this year.

No spreadsheet. No list. Occasionally I updated the column on the right side of this page, the "Now Reading," though I declined to include the books I was reading to my son, now almost 15 months old. There would be quite a few repeats on that list, including a book we have unofficially titled "Sad Animals."

Huge point of pride that this little guy loves books. He'll clamber into your lap with a book in hand, and point out certain pictures and read along. His favorite books often involve the word "no," which he delights in saying.

Did I distract you yet from the lack of spreadsheet? It is partially due to caring for baby that I neglected to care about logging my book list. To be honest, I used him as an excuse: I knew I'd be busy and never started a list in the first place. It was freeing to read indiscriminately and not think about how the books stacked up, or how many books I'd have to read to reach the previous year's total, or whether I seemed to be reading more nonfiction versus fiction or men versus women. All of that tracking I did was interesting for a time, and helpful in making conscious choices about reading material. But the unconscious can be a powerful ally, I think, in picking books that you not only want to read, but might even need to read.

A few of the ones I read and loved (or am still reading, and ones that I can, at this moment and without a spreadsheet as a reminder, remember): Kate Atkinson's Started Early, Took My Dog; Jo Ann Beard's In Zanesville; Bob Hicok's Words for Empty, Words for Full; Teju Cole's Open City; David Foster Wallace's The Pale King; Marilynne Robinson's Gilead (again); Patricia Henley's Other Heartbreaks; Michael Martone's Four For a Quarter; Mark Neely's Four of a Kind; Jennifer Egan's A Visit from the Goon Squad; Gary Shteyngart's Super Sad True Love Story; Suzanne Collins's Hunger Games trilogy; and Leah Stewart's Husband and Wife.

My awesome sister and brother-in-law got me a Kindle for Christmas, which has been fantastic. The first book I downloaded was Thoreau's Walden. A compromise of sorts: taking baby steps into the technology, dearhearts. (Also: free book.) Can't imagine ever giving up paper books, but I'm excited by the prospect that having more options will equate to more reading next year.

Happy almost-2012. And please send me your recommended reads.

11 lines in 11 minutes

1. When I was in college, we called an automated line to find out our grades in advance of receiving paper copies; you had to listen to a maddeningly slow voice spell out the course and section number and then likely you would hear, "GRADE. NOT YET. SUBMITTED."

2. The message I'd like to send at present: GRADE. NOT YET. SUBMITTED.

3. During the Victoria's Secret Runway Show tonight, with musical guest Kanye West, he spoke of his own departed angel, his mother; he dedicated a song to her as 19-yr-old women dressed in angel wings strutted past.

4. His mother died of complications from plastic surgery.

5. I am living the American dream, said one corseted model.

6. This was about six minutes worth of the show, and then we watched LOUIE, in which the title character, a much younger male comedian, came on to the much older Joan Rivers.

7. Today I read a YA blog that called this generation of young people the most literate and text-savvy of all time.

8. Eggs, it seems, taste different lately, almost as if they've changed the recipe, like the chickens got together and cracked open (ha) a cookbook and said, Well, how about this?

9. If I were a different sort, I would WebMD the symptom: WHAT DOES IT MEAN WHEN EGGS TASTE DIFFERENT?

10. Better not to know.

11. Ah, there's twelve minutes, and I've missed my designated window, and we haven't even gotten to the tabloid narratives observed at the grocery store, which can be a topic for a later date. (Teaser: ANGELINA RUINS THANKSGIVING. And it hadn't even happened yet.)