It's warm. I've rolled my jeans to the knees. All sorts of people go by the house. One of the people is shirtless and running. Another is crying and hugging her purse.
A crying woman once asked me for a cigarette and I felt so awful for not having cigarettes. I was holding a small box of frozen mice and the crying woman thought it was a pack of cigarettes. I explained, but the woman was already walking.
I haven't smoked a cigarette in a few weeks. The last time I smoked a cigarette, I didn't really smoke it. I just held it in my fingers and my friend told me I held it like I was rich. No one taught me to smoke. I've watched my grandmother, though, and that's where I picked up the form. It's from when smoking was part of a person's social presentation. Everyone smoked in the past.
One of my friends has a vapor cigarette. It's a long, electronic tube of metal. The tip glows green when you suck in. It looks like a dog whistle for robot dogs. The vapor is flavored, but all the flavors are crushed candy. When you breathe out, the vapor is white and thick as pot smoke.
I saw some shirtless men sitting on their front stairs giving each other haircuts. I have a list of situations I find attractive. The haircuts one is only surpassed by the one where a gap-toothed man crosses the street carrying a case of beer on his shoulder. It's been a lucky week because I've come across both of these situations. The gap-toothed man wasn't smoking, but that's the optional ingredient in the recipe.
It's been a lucky month, really. My story, "Other Sons" from SmokeLong Quarterly, made the wigleaf top 50. I got my first check for a story you'll read in June. I looked in the mirror and smiled because I've been working out and I can finally see the change. I was around at the right time to watch my snake shed her skin. It was like watching someone try to take off their shirt after a workout. I wanted to help my snake, but I have this policy about disrupting the natural order of things.
I will swat a fly, though. If it needs doing.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Friday, April 27, 2012
Cutting Off the Nose
My birthday was Sunday. I was born in West Virginia in the mountains. My grandmother and I went looking for the exact place a few years ago. We couldn't find it. There's a place called Hurricane, West Virginia. There's also a place called Nitro, West Virginia. The interstate is carved out of mountains. You can look down into towns if the fog isn't bad. Kansas City sits on hills, too, but no one outside Kansas City knows that. They all ask if the flatness makes me crazy, but I have to drive a little before I can even see the horizon. It's
been a couple months since I've had a car to drive.
I've started having nightmares I have to drive a car and can't do it. The roads have changed and I can't read the signs. Josh has these dreams, too. He's a non-driver. I also dream of going back east this summer. However it happens, it won't be because I drove.
Every year, there's a family reunion at a lake in North Carolina. We swim across the lake and we're in Virginia. There's a little beach there and we try to be quiet because we go at midnight, but sometimes it's not possible to kill our joy. We swim back by way of a large rock where the water is cold and the catfish brush our legs. A lot of the family stay in the lake house they've owned for 30 years, but the house is sold now. I don't know what we'll do. I didn't go last year and now I won't go again, at least there, at that lake. I cried. Sue me.
Josh is in a play. I've told you that. You should go. There's a show tonight at 8 and tomorrow at 8 and Monday at 8. The tickets are 15 dollars. Monday night they're 10. Josh is the real deal, kids. I didn't know it, but I do now. I mean, Jesus, really. He can't drive a car, but he can be funny when he needs to be.
I got news of a big story acceptance last week. I don't like saying where until it hits, so I won't. You'll know in June.
Josh and I walk everywhere and sometimes people in trucks whistle or yell. I get mad. There are stories I could tell. I'm too mad to tell them. What makes me mad is those people whistling and yelling are gay, too. In some way, they're queer and they hate it and so they hate Josh and they hate me. I hope they find a little quiet time to be men with other men. If I had one wish.
I've started having nightmares I have to drive a car and can't do it. The roads have changed and I can't read the signs. Josh has these dreams, too. He's a non-driver. I also dream of going back east this summer. However it happens, it won't be because I drove.
Every year, there's a family reunion at a lake in North Carolina. We swim across the lake and we're in Virginia. There's a little beach there and we try to be quiet because we go at midnight, but sometimes it's not possible to kill our joy. We swim back by way of a large rock where the water is cold and the catfish brush our legs. A lot of the family stay in the lake house they've owned for 30 years, but the house is sold now. I don't know what we'll do. I didn't go last year and now I won't go again, at least there, at that lake. I cried. Sue me.
Josh is in a play. I've told you that. You should go. There's a show tonight at 8 and tomorrow at 8 and Monday at 8. The tickets are 15 dollars. Monday night they're 10. Josh is the real deal, kids. I didn't know it, but I do now. I mean, Jesus, really. He can't drive a car, but he can be funny when he needs to be.
I got news of a big story acceptance last week. I don't like saying where until it hits, so I won't. You'll know in June.
Josh and I walk everywhere and sometimes people in trucks whistle or yell. I get mad. There are stories I could tell. I'm too mad to tell them. What makes me mad is those people whistling and yelling are gay, too. In some way, they're queer and they hate it and so they hate Josh and they hate me. I hope they find a little quiet time to be men with other men. If I had one wish.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
Snakes Alive
Walking all over Kansas City is one of the new things I do. Last weekend, I walked all over Kansas City with my friend. We got lost. We got found. We looked at houses and drank bourbon and ginger beer. We saw a bunch of cats. My friend said the best thing to come out of the economic downturn is all the outdoor cats. Any of them will come up to you and act like a pet because they all used to live indoors. My friend and I sat on my porch and a stray cat jumped in my lap and my friend said, "See. That's totally your cat."
Everywhere I go, someone is telling me a snake story. Everyone has a snake story. I tried to feed a snake out of my hands once and the snake bit me, of course. I'm not Snow White, though one of my friends has a bird who will fly across the room and land on her finger. My only fairy tale quality is that I have a really good sense of direction. Oh, and I'm the first son, which means I'm destined to make a fatal mistake involving my pride.
I made a molasses pie yesterday and it was nasty, but then I put it in the fridge overnight and today it has promise. I can see how I'll do it next time. Josh politely ate his slice and then said, "This is acrid." Yes, I used a strong molasses. I'll use sorghum when I try again. We can beat this thing together.
The weather was so good for a while. It got chilly this week, though, so the men of the neighborhood kept their shirts on while they mowed. One of them even wore jeans, which was sexy in its own way.
I'll tell you about a dream I have every year. I'm walking down the street and a dog runs at me. As it jumps for my throat, I pull its jaws apart with my bare hands. You may know my hands are strange and I probably couldn't kill a dog like that. My fingers have weird bends to them. I used to try to force them straight, but that doesn't work. Will never work. Has never worked.
I have things to brag about, but the only one of those things I'm comfortable bragging about is that I have a story up at Spork Press. Read it, I beg you, because I'm so proud of that story.
My birthday is soon. Get cracking.
Everywhere I go, someone is telling me a snake story. Everyone has a snake story. I tried to feed a snake out of my hands once and the snake bit me, of course. I'm not Snow White, though one of my friends has a bird who will fly across the room and land on her finger. My only fairy tale quality is that I have a really good sense of direction. Oh, and I'm the first son, which means I'm destined to make a fatal mistake involving my pride.
I made a molasses pie yesterday and it was nasty, but then I put it in the fridge overnight and today it has promise. I can see how I'll do it next time. Josh politely ate his slice and then said, "This is acrid." Yes, I used a strong molasses. I'll use sorghum when I try again. We can beat this thing together.
The weather was so good for a while. It got chilly this week, though, so the men of the neighborhood kept their shirts on while they mowed. One of them even wore jeans, which was sexy in its own way.
I'll tell you about a dream I have every year. I'm walking down the street and a dog runs at me. As it jumps for my throat, I pull its jaws apart with my bare hands. You may know my hands are strange and I probably couldn't kill a dog like that. My fingers have weird bends to them. I used to try to force them straight, but that doesn't work. Will never work. Has never worked.
I have things to brag about, but the only one of those things I'm comfortable bragging about is that I have a story up at Spork Press. Read it, I beg you, because I'm so proud of that story.
My birthday is soon. Get cracking.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Ain't No Party Like
I tried a new pie recipe and the custard separated because I overbaked it. I stayed up late doing the pie again so I could get it right. It was a really good pie. Maple buttermilk. The custard was perfect on the second run. It was solid on the fork, but then it collapsed in the mouth. A familiar experience for me, obviously.
I'm making another pie for a party tonight. It's a divisive pie. People love it or they politely hate it. It's a vinegar pie with honey for the flavor and sweetness. I sprinkle the top with sea salt. It's complex, but it's heaven. It goes without saying that my butter crust is perfect. Whoops. I said it.
God. Enough about pies. Spring, y'all. It has sprung. Which means I walked to the grocery today wearing a t-shirt. I love the grocery because there are always men there I can use to develop quick crushes. Everyone has to get groceries, even hunks. One of my crushes actually works at the grocery. Josh and I caught him fist-pumping the air once. He's probably straight. He was out front today smoking a cigarette with a girl. The girl said, "Are you sure I'm not going to get you in trouble?" and the guy looked around like yes, she might get him in trouble. "No," he said. "I'm good."
Josh is going to be in another play. Get your tickets HERE. He plays about ten characters with different foreign accents. He's been sexing up for the role. He flexes his arms and muscles pop up now. It's not like begging a noodle to do something it can't do.
St. Patrick's Day sure was a day. A couple walked down our street eating pizza right out of the box. The girl of the couple came into our yard and tried to feed her slice of pizza to a tree. The tree was not receptive. The girl steadied her drunk self and tried again. No dice.
On the same day, Josh and I were walking home from the library and a drunk girl leaned out of her parked car and yelled, "Are you all gay? My boy here's gay. Yeah, he loves penis." There was a guy sitting next to the girl. He was drunk, too. Josh and I kept walking. The girl was yelling, "Hey! Hey!" but we were gone. If the guy wanted our penises so much, he could've said so himself.
My Kentucky friend keeps calling to talk about her snake problem. She has snakes mating in her trees. I'm fascinated by snakes. My friend insists on calling it a snake problem, but I like to think of it as a snake opportunity. My friend was picking up sticks and talking on the phone with her mother when she almost picked up a snake. I think that's just wonderful. I wish my yard was tripping with snakes. It is, instead, tripping with dog shit.
The only animals I've seen around lately are cats. There's a new stray and she has these short little legs but a regular body. She crosses the street at intersections like a person. In the dark, she looks like an opossum.
Speaking of, I have a story at Monkeybicycle. A man in England hates my story, but he hates everything. It's adorable. I wish I could watch him eat so I could see on his face how much he hates the food. My story has an opossum and a car accident and two men getting in the shower. But read it anyway.
I'm making another pie for a party tonight. It's a divisive pie. People love it or they politely hate it. It's a vinegar pie with honey for the flavor and sweetness. I sprinkle the top with sea salt. It's complex, but it's heaven. It goes without saying that my butter crust is perfect. Whoops. I said it.
God. Enough about pies. Spring, y'all. It has sprung. Which means I walked to the grocery today wearing a t-shirt. I love the grocery because there are always men there I can use to develop quick crushes. Everyone has to get groceries, even hunks. One of my crushes actually works at the grocery. Josh and I caught him fist-pumping the air once. He's probably straight. He was out front today smoking a cigarette with a girl. The girl said, "Are you sure I'm not going to get you in trouble?" and the guy looked around like yes, she might get him in trouble. "No," he said. "I'm good."
Josh is going to be in another play. Get your tickets HERE. He plays about ten characters with different foreign accents. He's been sexing up for the role. He flexes his arms and muscles pop up now. It's not like begging a noodle to do something it can't do.
St. Patrick's Day sure was a day. A couple walked down our street eating pizza right out of the box. The girl of the couple came into our yard and tried to feed her slice of pizza to a tree. The tree was not receptive. The girl steadied her drunk self and tried again. No dice.
On the same day, Josh and I were walking home from the library and a drunk girl leaned out of her parked car and yelled, "Are you all gay? My boy here's gay. Yeah, he loves penis." There was a guy sitting next to the girl. He was drunk, too. Josh and I kept walking. The girl was yelling, "Hey! Hey!" but we were gone. If the guy wanted our penises so much, he could've said so himself.
My Kentucky friend keeps calling to talk about her snake problem. She has snakes mating in her trees. I'm fascinated by snakes. My friend insists on calling it a snake problem, but I like to think of it as a snake opportunity. My friend was picking up sticks and talking on the phone with her mother when she almost picked up a snake. I think that's just wonderful. I wish my yard was tripping with snakes. It is, instead, tripping with dog shit.
The only animals I've seen around lately are cats. There's a new stray and she has these short little legs but a regular body. She crosses the street at intersections like a person. In the dark, she looks like an opossum.
Speaking of, I have a story at Monkeybicycle. A man in England hates my story, but he hates everything. It's adorable. I wish I could watch him eat so I could see on his face how much he hates the food. My story has an opossum and a car accident and two men getting in the shower. But read it anyway.
Friday, March 9, 2012
A Wounded Party
AWP made me want a cigarette. Well, not a cigarette, but to have cigarette smoke blown in my face by a hot guy. It was the worst on the last night when this very attractive animal of a man was rolling his own cigarettes while we all drank in the hotel bar. He couldn't smoke in the bar, so he asked if anyone wanted to go outside and smoke with him. I tried to come up with a way to decline a cigarette and yet ask if I could stand next to him while he smoked. There was no way. I stayed inside and thought maybe when he came back he would lean over to talk to us and a little bit of stale smoke breath would creep out of his mouth and into my nose. It didn't happen.
I met my soul mates, though. I would give you their names, but what if you think you're one of them and it turns out you're not? You are, though. You probably are. One of my soul mates tweeted about how that week in Chicago changed his life and how he was crying because he missed everyone. Then he deleted the tweet. I saw it and put my hand to my heart and thought, "I know what you mean." The connecting of faces to names was religious. I met Roxane Gay and it was like going behind the curtain in a temple.
Josh was with me. Josh isn't a writer, but Josh is a reader. Josh bought a ton of books. Josh danced. Josh made all the ladies go yeah. Josh was honest with me about my reading. "It was a little fast," he said. Josh was right. Don't tell him, but Josh is always right when it comes to things like that. Josh and I had a lot of whiskey gingers that were mostly ginger.
I met my best internet friend. I knew her by her hair. I miss her. She kissed my tattoos and then she made other people kiss my tattoos. Once upon a time, I internet joked about this one guy kissing my tattoos. When this guy was around, Josh would poke me and say, "There he is," and I would just look the other way like it didn't even matter. My one regret, I guess.
Chicago doesn't have better food than Kansas City. Josh and I ate a lot of OK food. We took the train and the bus and we went all over trying to eat the best of the best as determined by food critics. The stand out was this torta place, XOCO. The flavors, y'all. In every other way, Kansas City has Chicago beat.
People kept telling me I didn't look like my online pictures. I was taller or nicer or hotter, depending. Thank you, everyone. You were hotter, too. You all had very nice hands.
I met my soul mates, though. I would give you their names, but what if you think you're one of them and it turns out you're not? You are, though. You probably are. One of my soul mates tweeted about how that week in Chicago changed his life and how he was crying because he missed everyone. Then he deleted the tweet. I saw it and put my hand to my heart and thought, "I know what you mean." The connecting of faces to names was religious. I met Roxane Gay and it was like going behind the curtain in a temple.
Josh was with me. Josh isn't a writer, but Josh is a reader. Josh bought a ton of books. Josh danced. Josh made all the ladies go yeah. Josh was honest with me about my reading. "It was a little fast," he said. Josh was right. Don't tell him, but Josh is always right when it comes to things like that. Josh and I had a lot of whiskey gingers that were mostly ginger.
I met my best internet friend. I knew her by her hair. I miss her. She kissed my tattoos and then she made other people kiss my tattoos. Once upon a time, I internet joked about this one guy kissing my tattoos. When this guy was around, Josh would poke me and say, "There he is," and I would just look the other way like it didn't even matter. My one regret, I guess.
Chicago doesn't have better food than Kansas City. Josh and I ate a lot of OK food. We took the train and the bus and we went all over trying to eat the best of the best as determined by food critics. The stand out was this torta place, XOCO. The flavors, y'all. In every other way, Kansas City has Chicago beat.
People kept telling me I didn't look like my online pictures. I was taller or nicer or hotter, depending. Thank you, everyone. You were hotter, too. You all had very nice hands.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Hot Dog
Josh and I are on our way to Chicago. We're on the Megabus. Our driver's name is Maurice and he makes jokes like, "Excessive profanity is prohibited, but you can cuss a little." I would cuss, but there's nothing around here to cuss at. We're in the middle of Illinois. People make fun of Kansas, but I mean really, what's the difference? I guess Chicago's the difference.
The bus is a double-decker. We're on top so we can look down into the big trucks we pass and assess the drivers. I've seen one hot truck driver, which means there's a first time for everything. He had a ginger beard and, well, the Megabus was going too fast, but I think we made eye contact. His name was Roy. Like I said, we talked with our eyes.
We just passed some wild turkeys hitchhiking on the shoulder of the interstate. A guy in front of us said wild turkeys roam around in packs of 20. It made me think of chicken nuggets. All I used to eat was chicken nuggets. The only vegetable I ate as a teenager was corn and I don't even think corn is a real vegetable. It's just sweet golden nibblets. The point is: these wild turkeys were just looking for a ride and the Megabus did not stop.
The bus is a double-decker. We're on top so we can look down into the big trucks we pass and assess the drivers. I've seen one hot truck driver, which means there's a first time for everything. He had a ginger beard and, well, the Megabus was going too fast, but I think we made eye contact. His name was Roy. Like I said, we talked with our eyes.
We just passed some wild turkeys hitchhiking on the shoulder of the interstate. A guy in front of us said wild turkeys roam around in packs of 20. It made me think of chicken nuggets. All I used to eat was chicken nuggets. The only vegetable I ate as a teenager was corn and I don't even think corn is a real vegetable. It's just sweet golden nibblets. The point is: these wild turkeys were just looking for a ride and the Megabus did not stop.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Carless
I didn't get my driver's license right away. I was afraid to take the driving test when I was 16. When I finally took the test at 17, the tester said, "What are we parked on right now?" We were parked on a hill and I'd forgotten to pull up the emergency brake, but I said, "We're parked on...asphalt?"
Just to put you in the mind of my driving history, I had the same car from 17 to last week. A 1999 black Toyota Corolla basic. It had a slot for a dashboard clock, but there was no clock. That basic. I loved that stupid car. And now it's gone. The engine died and that's all. The end. I'll get another car when I need it. I've been taking the bus, and that works, too. It's been a while since I've been a passenger. I used to love driving, but lately, I've hated it. Maybe it's not so bad on the bus.
I'm just kidding. The bus is awful. Someone please surprise me with a car.
There's a party on Friday and I'm taking the bus there. I think that's pretty funny because I live in Kansas City and everyone I know has a car. People here are idiots for cars because it's the Midwest and everything is so spread out. I will be hard-pressed to ask for a ride from my friends. I hate asking for rides. I would rather walk. This is the sin called "pride," but I don't really believe in sin, so.
Yesterday, I knitted with Katharine Cobey and some of my former teachers. My teachers treated me like a master knitter and crocheter. I've been writing so much I almost forgot I'm really good at knitting and crocheting, too. I wouldn't say I'm a "master" because that implies I care. I don't care enough about knitting and crocheting to make it my life. For a few years after college, I thought I might care that much, and I tried to care that much. I had some gallery shows and then I admitted to myself I wasn't really making art. I was making glorified stuffed animals and wall hangings and kitschy sweaters, but they didn't mean anything to me. It was just cheap yarn and some stuff to put around my house. Maybe I'll feel differently in some years, but that's how I feel now. I crocheted a unicorn with a banana split sitting on its back and what the hell is that supposed to mean?
Back to the knitting with Katharine Cobey. We sat around some tables and practiced some techniques I already knew. It was fun anyway. Some students were knitting, too. There were some guy students and they were so good looking. I mean, really. A couple of them were dressed like they were going out for the night and I just laughed to myself because NO, they weren't going anywhere. They were sticking their arms in dye pots and pulling out ugly/pretty fabric and maybe breathing in some questionable chemicals. One guy came back from lunch and his eyes were red, red, red. I'm just saying. We're all knitting again tomorrow, so I'll have to ask him if knitting is better or worse that way.
But anyway. We were all knitting and there was a camaraderie since we were all doing the same basic technique in different ways. There were cracks about men and how they ruin everything. One of my former teachers touched my shoulder and said, "We're just joking!" And I was like, "No, you're right. Men are awful." Katharine Cobey sat there knitting faster than anyone. She said, "Men aren't awful. They sometimes just make trouble is all." AMEN.
In other news, show my beautiful friend, Ethel Rohan, some love. Buy her books and tell her how they make you feel. We both recently cut our hair. Walk by us in the grocery store and see if you know us. See if you're surprised.
Just to put you in the mind of my driving history, I had the same car from 17 to last week. A 1999 black Toyota Corolla basic. It had a slot for a dashboard clock, but there was no clock. That basic. I loved that stupid car. And now it's gone. The engine died and that's all. The end. I'll get another car when I need it. I've been taking the bus, and that works, too. It's been a while since I've been a passenger. I used to love driving, but lately, I've hated it. Maybe it's not so bad on the bus.
I'm just kidding. The bus is awful. Someone please surprise me with a car.
There's a party on Friday and I'm taking the bus there. I think that's pretty funny because I live in Kansas City and everyone I know has a car. People here are idiots for cars because it's the Midwest and everything is so spread out. I will be hard-pressed to ask for a ride from my friends. I hate asking for rides. I would rather walk. This is the sin called "pride," but I don't really believe in sin, so.
Yesterday, I knitted with Katharine Cobey and some of my former teachers. My teachers treated me like a master knitter and crocheter. I've been writing so much I almost forgot I'm really good at knitting and crocheting, too. I wouldn't say I'm a "master" because that implies I care. I don't care enough about knitting and crocheting to make it my life. For a few years after college, I thought I might care that much, and I tried to care that much. I had some gallery shows and then I admitted to myself I wasn't really making art. I was making glorified stuffed animals and wall hangings and kitschy sweaters, but they didn't mean anything to me. It was just cheap yarn and some stuff to put around my house. Maybe I'll feel differently in some years, but that's how I feel now. I crocheted a unicorn with a banana split sitting on its back and what the hell is that supposed to mean?
Back to the knitting with Katharine Cobey. We sat around some tables and practiced some techniques I already knew. It was fun anyway. Some students were knitting, too. There were some guy students and they were so good looking. I mean, really. A couple of them were dressed like they were going out for the night and I just laughed to myself because NO, they weren't going anywhere. They were sticking their arms in dye pots and pulling out ugly/pretty fabric and maybe breathing in some questionable chemicals. One guy came back from lunch and his eyes were red, red, red. I'm just saying. We're all knitting again tomorrow, so I'll have to ask him if knitting is better or worse that way.
But anyway. We were all knitting and there was a camaraderie since we were all doing the same basic technique in different ways. There were cracks about men and how they ruin everything. One of my former teachers touched my shoulder and said, "We're just joking!" And I was like, "No, you're right. Men are awful." Katharine Cobey sat there knitting faster than anyone. She said, "Men aren't awful. They sometimes just make trouble is all." AMEN.
In other news, show my beautiful friend, Ethel Rohan, some love. Buy her books and tell her how they make you feel. We both recently cut our hair. Walk by us in the grocery store and see if you know us. See if you're surprised.
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