Have you all heard of the everybodyfields? If you haven't, they might be worth your discovering.
I found out about them because J.C. is abandoning me next week. She's going to Chicago to see friends and 1) attend a concert, where the everybodyfields will be opening and 2) watch a Cubs game during their home opening weekend.
At first, I was only jealous about her sitting at Wrigley in early April. Now, I'm a little pissed about the fact that I'll be here in Galesburg while she's watching the everybodyfields.
She'll also, I'm guessing, get to eat good sushi, which irks me some, too.
But, alas, I have work to do.
I finished a story this morning that I'm pretty excited about. It's a kind of sequel to the first ever story I published, way back in 2003 in McSweeney's. I thought this story was going to do a certain thing, but it didn't end up doing that, and now that means there's going to be a third story in the cycle. I'll be visiting the coffee shop tomorrow night to give this story a final lookover to see what I think of it.
For fun, here's the first few sentences:
Peloma left the consent form on the dining room table with a sticky note attached to it. The form was folded into thirds as if it had been in an envelope, and the yellow note rose from the paper like a little ramp.
On the note, she had written, “Please?” and beneath that, in small block letters inside parentheses, “I can help pay.” I had to squint to see it, but she’d drawn a tiny smiley face—with X’s for eyes, no nose, and a smile no bigger than a comma—beneath the word “help.”
3.30.2008
Postcards From Yo Momma
This site is very funny.
Reading it makes me feel a little voyeuristic, but I haven't come across anything too terrible yet. Mostly it just makes me laugh.
My mom could have given some of the emails a run for their money back in the day. Lately, sadly, she just forwards me lame things that circulate around her office.
Reading it makes me feel a little voyeuristic, but I haven't come across anything too terrible yet. Mostly it just makes me laugh.
My mom could have given some of the emails a run for their money back in the day. Lately, sadly, she just forwards me lame things that circulate around her office.
3.24.2008
Pop Culture
When I was studying White Noise as an undergrad, I thought that a class on Elvis would be ludicrous. I was an English Lit. and Classics double major, and I was a bit of a snob; I was certain that the reason people attended college was to get away from pop culture, not to immerse themselves in it.
Ten years later, however, my thoughts on all that have changed quite a bit. One of the professors in the psychology department at the school where I teach is researching the positive effects of gossip. One of the philosophy professors teaches gangster films and The Sopranos in order to probe philosophical conceits. And one of my colleagues in the English department teaches a class on Jane Austen and Bridget Jones.
And me? I'm fine with bringing up in fiction class how flashbacks are used in The Family Guy in order to contrast those methods with how they are used in some short story we've just read. Or I'll outline on the board the complexity of Tony Soprano's character. I even used to incorporate The O.C. into my lecture on meta-fiction.
But a couple weeks ago, right as Winter term was ending, I may have reached a new low, by pure accident. A student had written a creation tale, and in this tale he'd incorporated a number of poems. The poems were a little odd to me, and at the bottom of one of his manuscript pages, I wrote that the poems seemed to be equal parts Robert Blake and Shel Silverstein.
Then, in class, when the poems in the student's story were brought up, I said out loud that the poems seemed equal parts Robert Blake and Shel Silverstein. Not one student noticed, but after I'd said Robert Blake instead of William Blake out loud, I certainly did.
I wonder if Baretta ever wrote any poems.
Ten years later, however, my thoughts on all that have changed quite a bit. One of the professors in the psychology department at the school where I teach is researching the positive effects of gossip. One of the philosophy professors teaches gangster films and The Sopranos in order to probe philosophical conceits. And one of my colleagues in the English department teaches a class on Jane Austen and Bridget Jones.
And me? I'm fine with bringing up in fiction class how flashbacks are used in The Family Guy in order to contrast those methods with how they are used in some short story we've just read. Or I'll outline on the board the complexity of Tony Soprano's character. I even used to incorporate The O.C. into my lecture on meta-fiction.
But a couple weeks ago, right as Winter term was ending, I may have reached a new low, by pure accident. A student had written a creation tale, and in this tale he'd incorporated a number of poems. The poems were a little odd to me, and at the bottom of one of his manuscript pages, I wrote that the poems seemed to be equal parts Robert Blake and Shel Silverstein.
Then, in class, when the poems in the student's story were brought up, I said out loud that the poems seemed equal parts Robert Blake and Shel Silverstein. Not one student noticed, but after I'd said Robert Blake instead of William Blake out loud, I certainly did.
I wonder if Baretta ever wrote any poems.
Lady Lazarus
Dear Andrew Foster Altschul,
Do you remember reading the opening of your new novel, Lady Lazarus, (pictured below) at the Sewanee Writers' Conference?
Do you remember how after you finished reading everybody was all "Ooh" and "Ahh" and telling you "Oh-my-god-that-was-so-brilliant" and asking "When is it coming out? Can I buy it right now?"
And then do you remember how I walked up to you and said, "Dude, seriously? That's the best you got?"
Well, Andrew Foster Altschul, I just want to say that I was only joking. I mean, if I'd really hated what you read (and I didn't, I swear. I mean, I loved every frickin second of it) I probably wouldn't have said anything at all. I would have just left the building, wiped my hands of you completely.
But I didn't hate it, Andrew. I just didn't want to be like everybody else (and by everybody else I mean the seventy or eighty people who were all super-stoked and standing around asking other people who were still in the auditorium, "Did you see that? Were you here for Andrew Foster Altschul's reading?" Like, duh. It was two minutes ago. You think I walked in here right after he finished?). I didn't want to be like the rest of those people, those Altschul-lovers. That's why I told you your reading was terrible. But, like I said, I didn't mean it at all.
And just to prove that I didn't mean it, and that really I was probably only jealous of you and the amazing opening to the novel you'd written, I want you to know that I just pre-ordered Lady Lazarus from Powell's. In fact, I ordered five copies, so that I can give one to my mom and one to my wife and the remaining two to strangers I pass in the street. Those strangers may think it's odd, my handing them a book, but what I'm going to tell them is, "Read this. Right now. Andrew Foster Altschul is a god."
I hope they don't freak out.
And I hope you'll forgive me, Andrew Foster Altschul.
Your (kinda, maybe) friend,
Chad S.
P.S. I think it's cool that Calliope Bird Morath, the protagonist of Lady Lazarus, has her own MySpace page. I'm going to send her a friend request right now.
P.P.S. I think it's cool, too, that you worked with Stephen Elliott on that new book that arrived at my house the other day, Where to Invade Next. I've been reading bits of it before I go to bed, and holy crap does it give me nightmares. You and Stephen and McSweeney's are all awesome.
P.P.P.S. I hope this whole post isn't funny to only, like, two people.
Do you remember reading the opening of your new novel, Lady Lazarus, (pictured below) at the Sewanee Writers' Conference?
Do you remember how after you finished reading everybody was all "Ooh" and "Ahh" and telling you "Oh-my-god-that-was-so-brilliant" and asking "When is it coming out? Can I buy it right now?"
And then do you remember how I walked up to you and said, "Dude, seriously? That's the best you got?"
Well, Andrew Foster Altschul, I just want to say that I was only joking. I mean, if I'd really hated what you read (and I didn't, I swear. I mean, I loved every frickin second of it) I probably wouldn't have said anything at all. I would have just left the building, wiped my hands of you completely.
But I didn't hate it, Andrew. I just didn't want to be like everybody else (and by everybody else I mean the seventy or eighty people who were all super-stoked and standing around asking other people who were still in the auditorium, "Did you see that? Were you here for Andrew Foster Altschul's reading?" Like, duh. It was two minutes ago. You think I walked in here right after he finished?). I didn't want to be like the rest of those people, those Altschul-lovers. That's why I told you your reading was terrible. But, like I said, I didn't mean it at all.
And just to prove that I didn't mean it, and that really I was probably only jealous of you and the amazing opening to the novel you'd written, I want you to know that I just pre-ordered Lady Lazarus from Powell's. In fact, I ordered five copies, so that I can give one to my mom and one to my wife and the remaining two to strangers I pass in the street. Those strangers may think it's odd, my handing them a book, but what I'm going to tell them is, "Read this. Right now. Andrew Foster Altschul is a god."
I hope they don't freak out.
And I hope you'll forgive me, Andrew Foster Altschul.
Your (kinda, maybe) friend,
Chad S.
P.S. I think it's cool that Calliope Bird Morath, the protagonist of Lady Lazarus, has her own MySpace page. I'm going to send her a friend request right now.
P.P.S. I think it's cool, too, that you worked with Stephen Elliott on that new book that arrived at my house the other day, Where to Invade Next. I've been reading bits of it before I go to bed, and holy crap does it give me nightmares. You and Stephen and McSweeney's are all awesome.
P.P.P.S. I hope this whole post isn't funny to only, like, two people.
3.06.2008
Barrelhouse
And speaking of recently released literary endeavors...The new issue of Barrelhouse is available for mass consumption.
It includes fiction by Jim Ruland, Emily Doak, some guy named Rob McClure Smith, and many more, as well as an essay by me, in the magazine's tribute to "Dive Bar Stories."
I've long admired Barrelhouse, and not too long ago, I took this issue to bed with me, intending to read only the other Dive Bar essays. However, once I finished them, I ended up reading several stories in the issue, along with a number of fine poems.
No joke, the work in this issue kept me up for hours. I am humbled and grateful to have something written by me included among such excellent work. Seriously, go and look for yourselves at all this issue has to offer.
It includes fiction by Jim Ruland, Emily Doak, some guy named Rob McClure Smith, and many more, as well as an essay by me, in the magazine's tribute to "Dive Bar Stories."
I've long admired Barrelhouse, and not too long ago, I took this issue to bed with me, intending to read only the other Dive Bar essays. However, once I finished them, I ended up reading several stories in the issue, along with a number of fine poems.
No joke, the work in this issue kept me up for hours. I am humbled and grateful to have something written by me included among such excellent work. Seriously, go and look for yourselves at all this issue has to offer.
Storyglossia
The new issue of Storyglossia, guest edited by Katrina Denza, is live, with excellent work from some of my favorite writers--including Kathy Fish, Myfanwy Collins, and Claudia Smith--as well as a couple of pals (and also great writers)--Eugene Cross and Laura van den Berg.
Go and check it out now.
Go and check it out now.
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