Category Archives: Missouri

Commencement

[Ruffles papers at the dais]

In conclusion, here at the outset

[deafening applause]

[group of deaf students applaud]

[group of students wearing shirts that say Jesus Gave me Tinnitus applaud inaudibly]

[group of highly politicized roll-carts roll by, somewhat audibly, as if of their own volition. As though they are operating under their own control. Sentient roll-carts? Some blue, some black, some brown, some green. The roll carts do not have eyes, though they be sentient. Aye]

and so as a lunch-time option, I will suggest, it is of vital importance that snacks be “factored into the equation.”

[A tropical fish, who had been gazing with deep inattention at the square of linoleum floor framed by his idly hanging flippers, now slowly and deliberately looks up at the speaker. His attention has been piqued. What’s this about lunch? Snacks? ]

A snack isn’t what we make it. Even if it is we who have made the snacks. I’ll often make a snack for myself, mid-afternoon, as though a dog left alone at home had the ability to open the fridge, unscrew bottles, spread nut-butters with nut-butter knives…

[A very pink fish is lost in her own reverie. She imagines a chocolate laborador, left home alone, unscrewing a jar of peanut butter, dipping in a long blunt knife, and spreading the peanut butter across three saltine crackers. It is, needless to say, an erotic fantasy. The fish is transmuted into a feline. The feline is transmuted into an unopened tin of sardines. The tin opens itself, with a great deal of volition, and begins snacking upon itself, heartily, its lips — such as they are — smacking.]

And so women. And so men. And so students of the region, who are gathered and fed and assembled and educated here, under these eaves, under this aegis, be-chancelled by this bewitching chancellor–

[The Chancellor, whose name is R. Bowen Loftin, gathers himself up in a great mawkish burst of plumage, then shits himself into a garbage pail; exeunt.]

And so, at the outset, or in conclusion, the class of 1999 now leads you, seniors, graduating class of 2016, into blinkered victory. I hope you’re OK. I hope you all inherit a great deal of money and then squander your inheritance on graduate education and activism and travel and charity. And love. Squander everything for love, my children. Because love is the most pragmatic tool you can wield in the economy into which you’re graduating. And I needn’t remind you that all of your love is concentrated in your genitals.

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When Is It Too Late?

A: Help! I’m curious when it’s too late.

B: Do you mean you’re curious when it’s too late? Or you’re curious when it’s too late?

A: Help!

B: Calm down. We have an audience [Gestures to the audience.]

A: [Gestures to B’s gesturing]

B: Mocking me?

A: Mocking you?

B: Aleatoric birdsong

A: Harpsichord deathmonk

B: [Holds her tongue]

A: [Peacefully abides within a privileged suffering]

B: [Blows another imaginary deadline]

A: [Participates in careless riffing]

B: [Subscribes to a community newspaper with at least one racist reporter]

A: [Eats a great deal of Japanese bean-crackers]

B: [Watches Daniel Radcliffe rap a Blackalicious song on Jimmy Fallon on YouTube]

A: [Hurts himself with a mental needle]

B: [Farms out some stuff to a Little League of refreshment-and-freelancers]

A: What was your question during the Q&A?

B: I asked if a certain compound phrase the short-fiction writer used in her story was hyphenated

A: Cos you were trying to picture the phrase, how it was printed?

B: It changed the meaning for me, whether it was hyphenated or not

A: What was the phrase? How did a hyphen change its meaning?

B: Well OK It didn’t change it dramatically. Or… even … like… semantically. It was more of an aesthetic thing.

A: Like a blind guy at the opera who wants to know what color are the buttons on the Colonel’s vest

B: Exactly so

A: —B, the colonel’s buttons were orange

B: What sort of orange?

A: Brass— in a child’s imagination

B: Why does a child’s imagination turn brass orange?

A: The child has never seen brass, but the child does have a sense for what brass is, kinda generally, and so his imagination bronzes it

B: Bronzes the brass?

A: The brass is bronzed by the child’s imagination

B: Talking to you feels like passing a school of eels and neckties and their hybrid offspring through an eternal dishwasher: loading it up, running it, sitting near its quiet warmth during the dry cycle, unloading, beginning again with the fresh neckties and eels and their hybrid offspring, loading them in, draping them over the rack, pouring in the detergent, starting it up, sitting down, sliding over during the dry cycle, over and on and on and over again and on. Is what speaking with you today and most days feels like

A: Oh B, My dick is limpid

B: u mean limp?

A: No, limpid, which means “totally clear, un-dark”

B: it’s a bright cock?

A: Right, bright. Filled with natural light

TFP1

DARREN: My favorite kind of music is trust-fund punk.

KARREN: My favorite kind of tunnel is carpal. My favorite academic trend is the linguistic turn

DARREN: like in the 80s?

KARREN: yeah. I felt so good when scholarship took a linguistic turn

DARREN: One time you told me that you thought my blog was really well proofread

KARREN: it is!

DARREN: But I only thought, Ouch! faint praise!

KARREN: what’s faint about well proofed?

DARREN: i want it to be blazing and arresting, not clean

KARREN: well

DARREN: who will run the frog hospital?

KARREN: who will boost our followers?

DARREN: Steve Roeggenbuck will run the frog hospital

KARREN: we can’t name our son Ben Smith because he won’t be googleable

DARREN: I didn’t study search-engine optimization in college to help inform what we’re gonna name our son. anyway i thought we were gonna name him derrick?

KARREN:  like oil derrick?

DARREN: Like derek jeter?

KARREN: you’re embarrassing me. Have we gotten everything on our list?

DARREN: we still need salt-breath

[they turn down aisle 9, where the salt-breath is stocked]

DARREN: here’s the salt breath

KARREN [selecting a less-expensive brand]: let’s get this kind. that kind is eleven dollars!

DARREN: OK. I like this brand tho

KARREN: 11 dollars!

DARREN: OK, get the cheaper kind, but it’s not as salty. Or as breathy. It tastes like evaporated seaweed milk

KARREN: kan we talk about theater and radio and improvisation and the experience of reading plays or reading radio drama scripts

DARREN: darling i’d prefer not to in the supermarket. can it wait till we get home?

KARREN: I dunno. did you hear annie baker on WTF?

DARREN: yes. a fine reminder  that self-deprecation can sound 100 times more self-involved than self-aggrandizement

KARREN: or you mean that self-deprecation can just be another form of self-aggrandizement

DARREN: that’s a finer way to put it

KARREN: do we like these Deep Noodles?

DARREN: I’ve never tried them

[tosses the Deep Noodles with nonchalance into the brimming cart]

[a loud trust-fund punk song begins playing on the supermarket stereo]

KARREN: but Baker was sharp and charming in that interview

DARREN: i know. it was just when they were talking about the Pulitzer that it bummed me out

KARREN: what if I’m more interested in writing dialogue that’s read on the page than I am writing something that’ll be performed?

DARREN:  watching tv or film, the only time i’m conscious of the writing is after the fact. i only think “that was well written” once it’s over. as opposed to obviously reading a novel or a poem where every sentence is another opportunity to evaluate — and consciously appreciate — the writing

KARREN: sure because the writing is submerged in film or tv or theater — you have so much else to evaluate first — the performance, the images, the sound

DARREN: why don’t more people publish novels in dialogue?

KARREN: Because they have to feed their families.

[Throws a vegan suckling pig shrink-wrapped in hot-pink plastic into the cart, which buckles and implodes]

WET PARK

HEY

DRANK TOO MUCH COFFEE

STILL DRINKING COFFEE

UP AT 5:30AMISH

5:30 AMISH

5:30 MENNONITE

WHY DO SO MANY MENNONITE FAMILIES SHOP AT NATURAL GROCERS?

SERIOUS INQUIRY; PLEASE ANSWER IN THE COMMENTS

WOKE EARLY OF MY OWN ACCORD. BABY-RELATED BUT I COULDA FALLEN BACK ASLEEP IF I COULDA

THE ONLY THING MORE “SELF-INVOLVED” THAN BLOGGING ABOUT THE MINUTIA OF YOUR LIFE

IS GENTLY ANONYMOUSING — ANONYMYZING — ANONDYNE DYNASTY METASTAZING — OCCLUDING THE DETAILS OF MY OWN LIFE AS IF ANYONE CARES

EMPTIED THE DISHWASHER, CHECKED OUT THE 6 AM CST FACEBOOK FEED

BEEN A WHILE SINCE I’VE BLOGGED YOU, GIRL

FOR THE NEXT WEEK AND A HALF AT LEAST I’M AN ADJUNCT PROFESSOR OF JOURNALISM AT THE UNIVERSITY OF OCCLUDED!!!!

I’VE GOT CLASS IN 20 MINUTES

IF A STOODENT GOOGLES ME THEY FIND THIS BLOGPOST

WHEN I FIRST STARTED THINKING ABOUT TRYING TO “BE A TEACHER” I PASSWORD PROTECTED THIS BLOG

BUT THEN JUSTIN — HIS ACTUAL, REAL NAME — EMAILED ME SWEETLY DEMANDING I TAKE OFF THE PASSWORD

AND NOW I AM MANY MONTHS BEHIND IN OWING JUSTIN AN IN-DEPTH EMAIL ABOUT AN “OCCLUDED PROJECT”

BUT I SORTA DOUBT HE’S GONNA SEE THIS,

PLUS I “LIKED” SOME OF HIS RECENT GOOD NEWS ON FB, THAT PROBABLY BOUGHT ME ANOTHER WEEK, RIGHT?

THERE WAS SOMETHING ELSE

I’M HERE IN MY SHARED OFFICE AT THE OCCLUDED U

NICE VIEW OF ELM STREET. A BIT OF PEACE PARK

TODAY IN CLASS WE’RE SKYPING WITH A RADICAL YOUNG JOURNALIST WHOSE ACQUAINTANCE      I’VE MADE

HE’S AN EDITOR AT OCCLUDED NAME OF MAGAZINE, CURRENTLY ENJOYING A SURGE IN RESPECTABILITY OR AT LEAST MORE PPL TAKING IT SERIOUSLY DUE TO HBO SERIES AND SPIKE IN INTL INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALISM

I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT JOURNALISM, BUT I AM A FAIRLY ACCOMPLISHED STAND UP COMEDIAN, SO TEACHING WORKS OUT FINE

AROUND 6:30 THE HUMAN INFANT WOKE UP, I STRAPPED HIM TO MY THORAX AND WE TOOK THE DOG TO THE PARK, THE GRASS WAS BE-SOAKED IN DEW

AN OVERFRIENDLY A.M. BIKER SAID HELLO IN AN AGGRESSIVE WAY, SORT OF LIKE “HEY WHY IS IT I WHO MUST BE THE FIRST TO SAY HELLO?” MY RESPONSE WOULD HAVE BEEN, “I HAVE A DEGENERATIVE RETINAL CONDITION AND DIDN’T SEE YOU, YOU OVERFRIENDLY LEATHER-SKINNED MEGA-DAD”

BEEN READING A BIT OF CAROL DEPPE’S THE RESILIENT GARDENER, THINKING ABOUT PLANTING SOME RESILIENT VEGETABLES IN THE OLD BACK YARD

LAST NIGHT THE MISSUS AND I HAD A GOOD LAUGH RE A PASSAGE IN THE BOOK I READ ALOUD TO HER, WHEREIN DEPPE WAS RECOMMENDING TO THE READER A BOOK BY JARED DIAMOND ABOUT CATASTROPHE THAT INFORMED HER CHAPTER ON CATASTROPHE AND CLIMATE CHANGE, I AM PARAPHRASING BUT DEPPE WAS LIKE “LIKE MOST GREAT BOOKS THAT COVER A BROAD RANGE OF HUMAN HISTORY THIS BOOK IS VERY HARD TO SUMMARIZE, IN FACT IT’S INDESCRIBABLE” — I’M NOT DOING IT JUSTICE BUT SUCH A POWERFUL BOOK RECOMMENDATION ACCOMPANIED BY A SUBLIME CONFESSION OF the failure of language, it made us laff.

Should probably head over to class now, guys. I realized I should be supplementing the steady stream of nonsense stream of consciousness I fill the baby’s ears with more useful language acquisition naming time, like “TREE” and “DOG” , so my internal monologue is now infantalized and externalized; “the doggie is shitting in the woods; dogs love to shit in the woods; do you love that doggie? the doggie loves to chase the ball”

AND SO ON

Wales

—Here, you don’t have a job?

—No, I’m all alone, on a computer not hooked up to the internet, drinking a craft beer out of a can, composing an email to you.

—It’s almost like we’re having a beer together.

—How romantic.

—How are your studies?

—You mean the life of the mind?

—How is your life?

—My mind hurts.

—How is your salad duty?

—I’ve been making bad salads. Bag salads.

—How is your girlfriend?

—I had a dream that she died.

—But she’s alive?

—She’s working on a new translation of Émile Zola’s Germinal (1885). It’s an experimental translation where she takes liberties with the text. Instead of mineworkers, her version of the novel centers around a group of flowers.

—Anthropomorphic flowers?

—Is there any other kind?

—Yes

—Non-anthropomorphic flowers?

—The flowers take place in an election year and the gummy part of my car’s tyres.

—Huh. I think Uncle’s gone into one of his Tish-rages again, Paulice–

—Right. Grab the corduroy. A wide wale will be wanted for tonight. Oh, hush, Uncle; please don’t. Stop fussing. It’s Auld Hallow’s Ween, for aunt grable’s sake. We musn’t brackish the whoolinancy — I mean the whoolery.

—Genre’s got a beer-boner for stoners tonight, Barbara. Barbara.

—I can’t tell if you want this exclamation mark.

—I don’t want just any exclamation point, Mark. [Pause, applause.] I want yours. [Renewed, sustained applause. A child is born.]

—This boner’s gone free.

—Now that you’re a dad, and a city councilman, you mustn’t post pseudohomoerotic flash fiction on your blog. You must only post outspoken 5 point rejections of Romney’s 5 point plan and so forth.

—You remind me of the news.

—Witch part?

—The fuzzy part with no skin.

—That’s called the Purloined Lettuce. [A mouth.] I am studying Botany with your Aunt.

—My nude aunt?

—I have a newborn baby. A child. I haven’t slept. No longer drink coffee. Go Tigers.

— I expect you’ll want to tell me about your craft beer in a can, now.

—Yes. I bought it at the supermarket with some hummus and the halloween candy. Came in a six pack just like a set of Diet Dr. Pepper, but in fact it’s an intensely hoppy microbrew from Whole Foods, Colorado!

—Durango. That candy’s not vegan

—Let’s get personal. I know writing on your blog makes you miss San Francisco.

—Of course. Who doesn’t? But the thing San Francisco doesn’t know is that I took all my shit with me to Missouri so I still have it so if I want to look at my shit like my books or the only one person I love more than anything

—Hang on, there are trick or treaters at the door. [Inaudible] [Audible] [Inaudible]. Fucker just took my last Krackel. [Pause.] Nice costume… What are you?

—Desert clown.

[Doug Liman, director of Swingers (1996), The Bourne Identity (2002), Mr. & Mrs. Smith (2005), Jumper (2008), and Fair Game (2010), walks in with Studio Monitors around his neck. Curtain.]

Tengo sueño, yo soy dueño

Hola. No he practicaba mi español. Fui a Londres. Fui a San Francisco. Ví mis amigos Californianos. Hice nuevos. Mi esposa esta embarazada. No quiero decir eso en “Facebook”, pero en español en mi blog, pienso que es OK. Anoche no pude dormir. Esta mañana me levanté a las seis para viajar a la granja. Que granja, Andres? Mi CSA. Que es un “CSA”, andres? Es mi fucking Community Supported Agriculture. Agricultura con Apoyo de la Comunidad: AAC? Sin embargo, me gustaría mucho. Las personas, las verduras. La tierra. Pero mucho trabajo. Después regresé a mi casa nuevo — nuevo, Andres? Si, mi esposa embarazada y yo acabamos de comprar UNA FUCKING CASA. Una casa viejo y stucco. Una hipoteca. La tasa de interés es muy bajo ahorita, pendejos. En Missouri, es posible comprar una casa si no tienes nalgas de oro. Mi esposa tiene un feto — un bebe creciendo — en su cuerpo. ¡Milagro! ¡Ciencia! ¡Amor!

Entonces despues de regresar de la granja de CSA fui a mi casa nuevo con mi esposa embarazada y su padre. Su padre es un dueño real — un maestro de casas y madera. Madera madura, si? Me entiendes, pendejo? LOL. Mi suegro me enseñó como usar instrumentos basicos de construcción — taladros, sierras, etc. Despues, compramos una cama! Y por fin, fuimos a fucking Buckingham Smokehouse para BBQ. Despues fuimos a Andy’s Frozen Custard. Fue 91 grados a las 9 por la noche! Una dia Missourieño, sin dudo. Para un hombre — un esclavo de ordenador como yo, esta dia de manos y masculinidad fue agradable. No hablo español. Te amo.

La historia de mi camiseta

Tengo una camiseta con un diseño de Ben Jones. Nunca la vestía porque mi compañero de trabajo, Quoinstone, tenía la misma camiseta y fue demasiado distintiva para nos dos llevarlo en la misma oficina. Pero ahora vivo en Columbia, Missouri, y puedo llevar mi camiseta de Paper Rad (el colectivo de Ben Jones) cada dia. Pero es super-colorido; este camiseta siempre empieza una conversación.

El martes yo caminaba en Broadway a KOPN, donde presento una programa de “Jazz” una vez a mez. Un joven en un carro me gritó, “Nice shirt, faggot!!!” Hice una mueca, y me sentí mal. “Bienvenidos a Columbia, MO,” pensé.

Después de mi programa, caminaba a mi casa, ví una chica, en ropa mas o menos “punk.” Ví que ella fue mirando a mi camiseta. “Ay,” pensé. “¡No mas!” Pero ella no fue como el joven en el carro. “That’s a really cool shirt!” ella dijo. Le di las gracias.

No hay moral de este historia. Mi camiseta no tiene moral. En San Francisco, es posible que no habría oído nada—positivo o negativo—de este camiseta. En Columbia, tengo las dos reacciones extremas. ¡Viva el centro-oeste!