Go outside, already

Sunshine's here.

Ain't No Sunshine. Not even a little.

Is this a good version of the song? I have no idea; my computer is still without sound, a problem I have not tried very hard to fix. But it's Bill Withers, so it must be good. "Use Me" by Bill Withers is also excellent, and there's a pretty good cover from some years back featuring Mick Jagger and Lenny Kravitz.

Now that your daily musical needs have been met, let me report there ain't no sunshine in Indianapolis. That's a problem. Tomorrow is Pole Day at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, a chance for ladies who've embraced the latest exotic fitness craze to showcase their -- what? No? OK. Apparently it's pole as in Pole Position, as in qualifications for the Indy 500. And it's rainy. The last two weeks have been gray and rainy. The drivers are probably playing many games of checkers in their trailers, waiting out the storms.

Maybe there will be sunshine for next Friday's Carb Day, a chance for everyone to eat as many donuts as possible, and -- what? No? OK. Carb Day as in carburetor and the final day of practice before the race, though from a fan perspective it seems mainly to serve as a giant pre-party. Sponsored by Miller Lite. Featuring a concert by ZZ Top on the Miller Lite stage. ZZ Top, people! Beer flowing like urine! Shirtless people of all ages!

It's not quite as fun to have a super-long beard and twirl your guitar in the rain, or to attend a concert and drink beer shirtless in the rain. The day is billed as "a tradition of rock and roll excess crowning a day of beer, engines, and sun." All the pieces are in place. So come on, sun.

Speaking of cars (weren't we?), I have a new car-related short story up at Booth, Butler University's innovative literary journal, called "Collision Physics for the Math Averse." The story will be up until next week, then archived. Booth, named after Hoosier writer Booth Tarkington, provides a little bit of sunshine amidst the dreary. Booth the writer won Pulitzers for The Magnificent Ambersons and Alice Adams. His home, not too far from my own, also seems worth a visit: it is oft-featured in the newspaper for being handsomely decorated. I was going to suggest a tour of the home if Carb Day gets rained out, but the current owners might have other plans.

And now, a cheerier song about no sunlight, from Death Cab for Cutie. Click for Black Cab Sessions video. I am forbidden to embed.

At least, I think I remember it being "No Sunlight." I had to read their lips.

First impressions

The Internet is quiet at 4 a.m.

The dream about desperately needing to find a bathroom means: get up and find one.

I read about strangers' lives and feel as if I know these strangers. When it's fiction, I feel comforted. When it's blogs, I feel creepy. The kids now say "creeper" instead of "stalker." I feel as though I'm repeating myself on that point. But it clearly made an impression.

8:30 a.m. is too early to ring the doorbell (three times) and bang on the door asking for someone who doesn't live here, man with a cross tattooed next to his eye. Really, there's never a good time. But the "Thank you, ma'am," was a nice touch. Appreciated.

The dream about introducing my friend Terry to my other friend Terry -- they both looked the same but one wore glasses and the other didn't, I couldn't believe they hadn't met yet, in my mind they were totally separate people -- and non-glasses Terry said something offensive and glasses Terry got up and left, means: ???

Good morning to you, too, birds. But how about we exchange greetings after 4 a.m., from here on out? You don't know about daylight savings time, I take it.

Awkward silences can last months.

The Internet is quiet generally before 9 a.m., when people arrive at work and begin not-working. Digital selves are standing in for our real selves, said the woman looking at a screen with a picture of herself on it. People are very, very upset that the free online service they've opted into where they publicly share private details wants to make those details more public. The free online service is meeting NOW, like right this minute, to discuss the outrage of their clientele.

I just misspelled "publicly" as publically. D-.



I predict the introduction of online warning labels. Put yourself out there in the vast Internet void, but do so privately. Open the door, peer out, and then hide. Be forewarned: a man with a cross tattoo next to his eye is gonna come knocking one of these days. And he'll still have the wrong place.

And then the Universe said HA HA!

I recently learned that two articles I wrote for NUVO last year won awards from the Society of Professional Journalists' annual Best in Indiana Journalism contest.

-“Unite! Hotel workers fighting to unionize” won first place for Social Justice Reporting
-“A different kind of chance” won second place for Social Justice Reporting

And yesterday, after receiving a rejection from a lit journal for a short story, I sat outside re-reading the wonderful Olive Kitteridge, finally relaxing into the sudden done-ness of the teaching semester. And then a bird shat upon my bare leg.

Universe, subtle you are not. But you do have a way of reminding a person that today's news is tomorrow's fishwrap. Onward, yo. It's time to write another novel.

Poems for Sale

Whenever my husband and I pass a vacant storefront in the neighborhood, we jokingly discuss the logistics of renting it to turn into a writing shop. There I'd sit in front of the plate glass window, writing on demand. A While-U-Wait operation, perhaps with a laundromat nearby so customers can pass the time or buy a soda. In this scenario, I'd sell short profiles for fifty cents, and a poem for a quarter.

Turns out I'm selling myself short. Molly Gaudry came up with the idea to charge one dollar American currency for a poem written just for the recipient, but is willing to accept donations beyond that modest fee. And this smart cookie set up shop on the Internet, bypassing that whole "rent" issue.

Of course I felt compelled to support another writer, and promptly placed my PayPal order. But I didn't necessarily want to dictate what she wrote about. (Come to think about it, that is one thing that sullies the idea of my imaginary writing shop: having assignments.) Molly will work with or without guidelines, and here is what she wrote for me: O.K., O.K.?

I love free enterprise. Does this make me a patron of the arts? I suddenly want to commission a painting.

Cigarettes & Sporks: An Earth Day Report

Yesterday, as I was driving to the mall wearing my eco-friendly brown polymer suit, windows down, Foo Fighters coming from the speakers, the woman in the car in front of me flicked her cigarette out the window. The forces of wind sent the lipstick-laced butt into my car window, where it landed smack-dab on my arm. I now have the circular initiation burn mark I've always dreamed of. When the swelling goes down, the mark will blend nicely with my forearm's constellation of freckles. (Little Dipper or Big Dipper, depending on your angle.)

OK, this didn't really happen. But the woman in the car ahead of me was smoking, windows down, and as the smoke wafted into my open window, I thought, What if? It would be a little bit hilarious, on Earth Day, to sustain minor injury from someone's ignited litter. Maybe "hilarious" is the wrong word. Painful, ironic, humiliating, furor-inducing?

No, I stand by hilarious.

Every mall worth its salt and fat contains a food court, and part of my Earth Day celebration took place there. (The polymer suit, alas, is also a work of fiction.) No, I did not need a plastic fork to eat my pizza slice. No, I did not need extra napkins. I did need, later, a cherry slushie float from Dairy Queen -- half price, as this DQ holds a regular afternoon Happy Hour.

My Earth Day maybe was not the most nutritious.

Moving on. It is certainly good to consider all the extra napkins, sporks, straws, etc. we use in a given day. The cans and bottles we toss when there's no recycling bin around. I'm a longtime recycler, but I'm nowhere near the level of Renee Sweany, the founder of Green Piece Indy, who I wrote about for this week's NUVO as part of their Green Guide.

Talking to her inspired me: besides a basement full of recyclable/reusable items that I'm eager to purge, I've been seriously thinking of getting some worms to make compost for the garden this year. They do a nice little turnaround with your kitchen scraps. I'm somewhat concerned about where to keep a big ole container of worms. But it looks like some space will be opening up in the basement soon.

Whole Lotta Links

Hello, beautiful nobody and everybody. Spring is all up in your business, no? Yes.

Please take a moment from your frolicking to read my interview with writer Steve Almond, here at Knee-Jerk Magazine. Congrats to Knee-Jerk for getting honorable mention (along with Cerise Press and Slush Pile) as best new online journal/magazine from storySouth's Million Writers Award competition. Top honors went to kill author, which published my short fiction, Sex in Secret, in Issue Two. They're already working on Issue Six, those busy anonymous editors.

And now back to spring: trail-walking (and there's Christopher on his bike. Hi, Christopher!), eating Indiana honey crisp apples at Locally Grown Gardens (Chef Ron rules: he quotes Ice Cube, plays reggae nonstop, and refers to "the culture-transgressive gift of fruits and vegetables"), picking up the pot of tulips knocked over by squirrel or wind for the second time today. Squirrel, I know it's you. But I shake your tiny, grimy paw today, pally-o. Frolic away.

You Wouldn't Understand

An early-April deadline is a-looming, and a crazy couple days are a-coming. My superior math skillz indicate that means I must write 1,000 words between now and tonight's Syracuse game.

But HOW?

Sit down and do it, is the short answer. The long answer is a leetle more complicated.

Because there's a list of other things to do, too. And not on that list, but already accomplished:

1. Take a nap
2. Eat some stuff
3. Muse about ways to cleverly link the two bumper stickers seen Tuesday: "It's a Jeep Thing - You Wouldn't Understand" and "It's a Vince Gill Thing - You Wouldn't Understand." Think indignantly, Hey, I MIGHT understand! Just give me a freakin' chance, boss. Then realize that no, I do not understand Jeeps, nor Vince Gill, and I likely never will.
4. Remember that article about Vince Gill and Amy Grant and their blended family, and their refusal to talk about THE PAST. It was in Good Housekeeping, or Self, or People, read in some waiting room or other. VG: How can we understand you if you won't tell us anything?
5. Consider that Vince Gill might like being misunderstood. That his fans prefer exclusivity, and actively practice the shunning of outsiders. Mystery, excitement, etc.
6. But that doesn't explain the Jeeps. WHO CAN EXPLAIN THE JEEPS?
7. Think about getting ahead by making four dozen basil-cheese triangles for party. Remember that I need to write. Put off making basil-cheese triangles. Why do I always make those things? Phyllo dough is the most labor-intensive food substance on the planet.
8. Need to clean out fridge to make room for party food. Eat some more stuff.
9. Consider where to watch Syracuse game, since neighborhood sports bar is a Butler bar. Wonder if bodily harm will befall those who show up in orange.
10. Understand that a link between Vince Gill and Jeeps will come when I least expect it. Like maybe while writing 1,000 words en route to meeting deadline.

Be the Bear

I am coming out of hibernation, but slowly, so as not to startle my nervous system.

Today I saw a crocus blooming. My crocus, because I planted it. As if I can stake a claim on such a thing.

The end of hibernation requires sustenance. When I called the cajun eatery to see what was on tonight's menu, the man said my favorite vegetarian dish, the B&B (which stands for I don't know what), was unavailable. "Waitaminute," said the man, and asked around. "OK. It's not on the menu, but we'll have it. Just ask." Bears are not vegetarian, and neither am I. But we want what we want. And we like when the neighborhood takes care of its own.

Bears and birds can be friends. Bears and squirrels have an iffier relationship. As for chipmunks, bears can't be bothered with chipmunks. They are too small, though they have much else to admire. They have grit, are hard-working, affable. So when one paticularly tenacious climber ascends the shepherd's hook to the birdfeeder, finally figuring out how to leap past the squirrel baffle that baffles only the human who put it there, a bear's gotta give a chipmunk credit. Even if the chipmunk appears to be doing unspeakable things to the birdfeeder, defiling it in a most egregious fashion. No longer cute and spunky but perverse and vile. Yet fascinating, in a PBS nature special kind of way. Do bears like to watch chipmunks simulate sex via orgiastic eating? That's an extremely personal question.

On the trail I saw a tough guy walking a big fluffy dog-show dog. And a petite lady with a shaky chihuahua. No bears, though.

Reading is a must both during and after hibernation. After, when the sun's out, a book on the porch cures most of the world's ills. Even while reading about the world's ills, in Persepolis, Marjane Satrapi's graphic memoir about growing up during the Islamic revolution in Iran. In class next week, the book & film just may hit the window of attention-span opportunity where spring fever is planted but not yet raging. Post-hibernation breeds optimism.

Bears do not wear t-shirts with slogans. But if they did? Concert tees, yes. Maybe something in support of Ralph Nader. And this: Be the Bear. In XXL, short sleeves, for catching the sun and spring air.

New fiction @ Wigleaf

If you like the short fiction, then please point your world wide inter-browser to Wigleaf, which published my piece Hang Up.

Go to the homepage here to read a wide assortment of fantastic stories, along with a postcard I wrote to the journal. No, not to the editors: to the journal. I love this idea, postcards. I still send postcards, and buy postcard stamps, though I may be the only person I know to do so. My old postcard pen pals now send e-mails, or post things on walls. Bah. Post it to the post, is what I wish. Have you ever stopped to think of the miraculous nature of the United States Postal Service? I mean, really. I have always loved getting and sending mail. When I was a child, I started a stationery business, mainly so I would get more mail. But I also liked providing the means for other people to make mail. I think I earned a grand total of five bucks, two of which my mother made me return when I couldn't fulfill a special order. When you're nine and you run out of a particular type of sticker (Mrs. Grossman's, large mice), and you can't find any more at the store, and there's no Internet or catalog from which to order, then you, as a nine-year-old, have to close the shop.

Today I read an article (in the newspaper! Can you imagine?) that the post office, to save money, is seriously considering five-day delivery rather than six. I say: bring it. Or rather, don't bring it, not on Saturdays. Here's the thing: the mail arrives once each day. You either receive what you'd hoped to receive, or you don't, in which case you have to wait until the next day at approximately that time. There's no constantly refreshing a web page, there's no anxiety related to the fact that some people expect 24/7 work accessibility, and expect instantaneous replies to messages sent on what is traditionally known as a "weekend." It's out of your hands and placed into the capable hands of our mailmen and women. I like to take at least one day off on the weekend. Letter carriers of our nation, you should take two.

It's not that I am e-mail averse; I am merely overwhelmed. And deep down, I am an old-fashioned girl in a newfangled world. The other day, I used the word "highfalutin" in absolute seriousness. Shoulda written it on a postcard instead, and mailed it across the land.