DANCE!

As our Thursdays with the TSB at the Music Cafe become fewer, I find that I'm sitting at the rail and soaking in as much as I can. Last night, for example, the dancers were just spectacular. My personal favorite being a woman who wore a black button down shirt, big square diamonds in her ears, and a pair of sweatpants that said DANCE! down the leg in wacky font -- complete with exclamation point. And dance!, friends, she did. In promenading circles.

During the first set, the band had a substitute drummer, as it seems that Ryan was at home being a "daddy" (is it true?!). I said the drummer looked like Neil Diamond, and Donna agreed. He was good, but as he played, he concentrated really hard. It was more like he was concentrating with his tongue, which stayed stiff in his open mouth. But his eyes glazed over like he might be catatonic. And, well, with that look: he looked like a zombie. He was zombie Neil Diamond. But, I mean -- fresh zombie Neil Diamond. Freshly bitten. The Zombie isn't physically showing, just in his brains.


Nrrraaaaaaagh! Kentucky Woman! Nraaaaaaaghhhh...Shilo...

I won't even tell you how many times I looked over my shoulder while writing this post.

If I have to lick another envelope, I might die. I might die of toxic, sticky, bitter poisoning. Or I might die because some crazy submitter to GW might realize that if I'm sending their SASE back instead of calling them, that they have been rejected -- and they might want to poison said rejecter by wiping anthrax on the envelope.

Anyway, yesterday I was given a rather large stack of cover letters and SASEs with circled R's on them. Meaning: reject, kindly, please. The process started out all right. Just stuffing envelopes and whatnot. It, at first, was impossible not to read the cover letters, or if included, brief samples. It was hard not to see how and why the submitters thought they were qualified, why they thought their novel was surely the next best thing GW could ever have. How much time they'd invested into it. How many M.F.As they had.

After awhile, I became robotic and stopped reading. Just rejecting. Reject, reject, reject.

But it was impossible not to notice a couple of titles and former accomplishments here and there. The 70 year old wounded veteran, the supposed second work of an author who'd written (and published!) a book called Pine Cones & Blood.

And of course, there was my absolute, absoulte personal favorite. A query letter for a novel called: THE EROTIC DESK.

I don't even remember what the author said the novel was about. All I remember is The Erotic Desk bolded in the middle of the cover letter. And a picture, somewhat like this that came to mind:

And then I giggled for about 20 minutes. Told the other intern, told the marketing assistant. Thought of the blog I might write about it. The contest I might have. Nobody ever really comments on blogs anymore, but I'm having a contest. It's a front-flap contest. (Surely, it cannot be a back cover contest, as The Erotic Desk's back cover will have far too many quotations from famous authors to include a synopsis of the plot.)

The rules: Write the front flap cover for the novel The Erotic Desk.

Here's mine:

From 37-time Pushcart nominee H.K.L. Johnson-Long comes a compelling, intense, coming-of-age new novel:

When Joe McGoff starts his new job downtown, he's not ready. Expecting a new, exciting adult life, his girlfriend is tragically killed in a boating accident during their second night in swinging Minneapolis. Having no girlfriend, and no other source of income, he must abandon his dream house only to move in with a retired plumber, Mikey. Depressed, lonely, and finding it difficult to care about the rest of his life, let alone his exectutive position, Joe soon realizes that relationships aren't all on the surface.

As he begins work, Joe finds that the office is a cubicle farm of people who are nothing like him. But he is the man in charge. He takes advantage of his position and successfully proposes to work from home. It is here, at Mikey's home, that he works in the basement office, and encounters a piece of furniture --and ass-- like he has never seen before.

One night, while preparing an ad campaign for a new seamless women's panty, Joe feels a rumble in his seat and hears strange, erotic ooo-ing. After minutes of strange, spooky arousal, he comes to realize that Mikey's old desk --is seducing him! Taken aback, and almost ashamed of his attraction to a desk, Joe tries to ignore his feelings.

But what follows is a true love story. The Erotic Desk is certainly not your typical man-meets-furniture story. Joe and the desk learn the importance of breaking down boundaries, standing for what is true, and fighting against societal norms. This novel is sure to make you question and examine all your ideas of love, passion, and the term workaholic. Meet a man who truly loves his job and a truly sexy wooden desk. The Erotic Desk is possibly one of this decade's most important relationships.

Reasons that I didn't get into the car of the elderly gentleman who screamed "need a ride! need a ride!" at me while I walked to my car in the rain:

1. I only get into cars when strangers first offer me candy or some other form of sweet compensation.
2. The trail of cars behind him was honking as he slowed down to talk to me, and I didn't want to make them even more agitated.
3. He was old, and conclusively, was a slow driver. It would've taken me less time to actually walk the one block to my car than to get into his car and have him drive forward, explain to him where my car was, and answer all of his other (although I am certain, wonderful) old man questions.
4. He looked like an exact cross of the old Six Flags guy and a cartoon character that was drawn hastily. I assure you, a ride in his car would've been nothing like Six Flags.
5. He was driving a Buick.
6. I am almost certain he was blind.

Holy Crap. Feel like crying today?

I'm writing a page on a site about ethical wills, which I'd never heard of until yesterday. These are some examples.

Ethical wills allow you pass on your beliefs, ask for forgiveness. It's like writing your own eulogy and having it read at your funeral. Like the episode of the Simpsons when Homer makes the tape for Maggie (you know, after eating "poisonous fish--do not worry, there is a map to the hospital on the back of the menu") and he's speaking from "beyond the grave---oooooo!"

Even when poorly written, I swear these will make you cry. A lot. In that way where you feel you just have to cry. And if you don't cry while reading it, such as if you're at work like I am, it will hurt your insides until you actually can cry. You might want to write one. Then you think about what your mom's or dad's or best friend's ethical will might say, and just the thought of that will make the room spin.

What an interesting possible exercise for a creative writing class. Playing on emotions in writing, using concrete imagery to form details, creating believable and strong characters.

I never thought law would be so emotionally moving. Dear everyone I love: NEVER DIE. (Until I die first.)

Maybe he'll plant a new j.o. tree in his yard.

Instead of unpacking my books this weekend, I instead bought more and more things and brought them into the house. It's like all of the boxes in the basement became intimate with each while I was gone and spawned more of themselves. So my boxes of books are now combined with my boxes of nightstands and dressers from Ikea, and all of them remained unopened while I frolicked about the northern suburbs with the Good Doctor this weekend.

On Friday, Liz and I went to Huie's, the small, small, somewhat dirty-with-scary-plants Chinese restaurant across the street. This was after a 2 hour shopping trip at Ikea, wherein we bought rugs, curtains, and nearly everything else that could be purchased. The food at Huie's, as I feared, was delicious. This means that I will have to go back. This means that when I want to go back, all I literally have to do is cross the street, say "lemon chicken, please" and it will be handed to me in a brown paper bag. (Thereafter, I will run home in such anticipation to eat.) Do you realize that this takes away a horrific step in take-out Chinese? Those 10 minutes in the car when you sit with the food on your lap, warming your thighs and making the entire car stink of sweet and sour?

On Saturday, the Good Doctor and I planned for a parade of homes. We got coffee. We looked at three houses. We got lunch. We went to the bookstore, to Pier 1, to a Holiday gas station were we realized we could get a free buyer's guide and not be as frustrated while looking at the homes. We went home. Then we went to a movie. The Good Doctor had gotten an unfortunate call from his real estate agent, one who claimed that his dream house in Minnetonka may not be his. Because a Minnesota Viking wanted to rent it. The Good Doctor was sad, and needed to be alone to mourn his house-to-Viking. So I decided to spend the night with my family in Albertville. And on Sunday, I spent the day with them. Went to church. Had an amazing run outside in my favorite fall weather. Then came home and convinced my brother to take the puppy on a walk with me, to the park. We went on the swings and tied the puppy to the chair, while the puppy hunted and demolished innocent grasshoppers. I decided to go home and finish unpacking.

But on my way, the Good Doctor sent me a text about pizza, which of course was irresistable, so I strayed from my path home and found myself back at his house in New Hope. It was here that he updated me on the Viking situation: the realtors, of course, both disuaded the owner about renting his home to a Viking and his two children. Of course, you don't want to rent your house to a Viking. You would come home to purple vomit everywhere and dead hookers in the basement. This is what Vikings do. And so, the owner reconsidered the Good Doctor's and his boyfriend's offer on the house, and after 1 month of fighting and second-guessing and reconsidering--and after a night of sadness and margaritas on the GD's part--it looks like he has a house. A dream house.

So, the news was good. Over pizza, I complained about my cell phone and lack of service. The GD convinced me of the great service with his phone and that it worked in my house. (My phone does NOT work in my house. My phone roams in my own bedroom. You can imagine how calm and okay-with-that I am.) So, after an hour and a half of trying to understand a new plan, I got a new phone, new number. The plan has unlimited texting. The phone has a full keyboard.

The GD and I went to my house to try out the new phone. Decided the weather was perfect for a walk. Walked. My house is in his old neighborhood, so he gave me the historic childhood tour. The schools he went to. The church. Where his best friend lived. Where they played football. Then we climbed a perfect, giant pine tree in the park. The branches circled around the tree, each a bit higher than each other. Like a spiral staircase of bike spokes. I climbed as high as my adrenaline would allow, and the GD climbed higher. While he looked down at me and I looked up and we spoke through the spokes of thick branches, he told me how he and his friends used to climb the tree all the time. And he told me that when he was a teenager, he used to climb the tree to masturbate--while looking through the branches, smelling the pine, feeling higher than the park, dangling his feet.

I said: You made me climb your jack-off tree? You tell me how wonderful this tree is, and I climb it, and you tell me it's the jack-off tree? This is disgusting.

The GD laughed. He said other people used the jack-off tree as well, but mostly it was just for climbing and not for masturbating.

Still, I really like the tree. And I'll climb it again. And "jack-off tree" could be the name of a book of poems.

Heh heh. September, I have a feeling, is gonna be a lot of things.

toothpastefordinner.com

Oh, dear. I'm so stressed. Friends, blogging does not help. Let's get through these first couple of weeks of September.

I am approaching the bridges I said I would cross when I got to them.

If you've ever driven west on the crosstown, right after France Ave., you may have noticed the sign that says Hwy 100, 1 mile. Then, you may notice that about 1/8 of a mile later, there is another sign that says Hwy 100, 1 mile.

As you may have guessed, this drives me fucking crazy. Which is it, MnDot? Which of the two same signs is exactly 1 mile away from MN 100?

You may think that one of the signs is 1 mile away from the North exit, and the next sign is a mile away from the South exit. But they are not clearly labeled, so if you think this, you're wrong. And this is especially unnerving in gridlock traffic. I creep along MN-62. I'm under the 1 mile sign. I'm like yes. I'm almost home. Then 15 minutes later, I'm under another sign that says Hwy 100, 1 mile. It's a sadistic Groundhog Day-esque experience.

***
I'm stressed. I'm stressed even when I'm not stressed, and there is a little part of my brain that screams stress!-stress!-stress!-stress! and flashes red lights behind my eyes when I'm trying to think about not being stressed. It's just the work, and moving this weekend, and the boxes in my living room and the pages in my website writing queue, and an interview tomorrow, and money, and my typical obsessive thoughts about where furniture goes in rooms, things I need to buy, and accounts I need to cancel.

Luckily, I've taken off Friday this week, but instead of being a real day off it will instead be a day of re-packing all of my things into boxes and driving them to Minneapolis. Then on Saturday, I will officially move, and then clean, clean, clean, and then instead of unpacking and feeling comfortable in my new home, I will spend the night at the Good Doctor's new place because Liz is gone and I'll be scared to be alone. Then Sunday, I will spend the day at the fair, eating, eating, eating, not unpacking, not writing sites, and also probably wondering about the results of the interview, and on Monday I will go to Ikea and spends hundreds of dollars and hopefully finally unpack and feel like I live somewhere that I know I'll be living for awhile. Plus, Liz and I have already painted the walls cream, and my room a brown color exactly the same shade as chocolate pudding.

***
At work today I got a mini-lecture from an editor regarding my run-on sentences and overuse of a word that was consensually voted as "just not it" by other editors. I find my roles of writer and editor interesting. As an editor, a teacher, I'd be thoroughly annoyed by comma splices. I might say something like what the fuck, dumbass! Of course you don't use a comma in a non-compound sentence! Get your poop in a group! And as a writer, I'm like: don't have time to proofread, don't care, fuck you, you fix it, that's what editors are for. I, can you believe it?, am not even ashamed. I think it is near impossible to be a successful writer and editor of your own work. I am good both at being anal and being creative, but never, ever at the same time. It's like mixing white wine and red wine. Individually, delicious! But together? At the most, you'd get a really nasty blush.

Soon this split-personality summer will come to an end. School started in Mankato this week for old students, old colleagues. For the first time in 19 years, I didn't have to be there. For the first time, I had no obligation, no notebooks, no night-before-school anxiety. And nobody cares that I'm not there. Nobody showed me a syllabus, nobody asked me about my attendance policy, nobody invited me to sit in a semi-circle of dirty plastic desks in a too-cold room, only to come out into the humid August air wishing for a tall beer and feeling so-ready to talk about the happenings of the upcoming year, nobody needed me to console them about their first-day teaching jitters, nobody talked to me about any poem or prose or book.

Nobody said hey, where's Jean? Doesn't she belong here?