Sunday, December 30, 2012


Something sort of incredible and awesome happened this week and I think it’s a message from God maybe or an allegory or whatever that word is.

I’ve lived in the same house for 20 years and just found out that the house, one door down, that had ‘the old couple’ living in it is also harboring their 53 year old, morbidly obese (TLC Show obese) son that I never knew they had.

None of the neighbors knew they had this son.

Until the paramedics had to come because he was stuck on the floor for two days while the parents were out of town and he stopped answering the phone and they called the cops I guess.

He stays inside on his computer and never leaves the house.  We’ve only been “sidewalk friendly” with the old couple but even our neighbor that lives next to them didn’t know about him.

Makes me feel like you can think you know something for 20 years and then be surprised about something you knew nothing about.

I think this event sort of encapsulates my year in some way.  I’m not sure how.  But I’d like to think it does.  Maybe the world is trying to give me a message.  Like, thinking I am not able to write a novel for all my life but maybe it’s hiding inside me unbeknownst to my neighbors and all I have to do is call the paramedics and get it out.

I hope 2013 is the year for flashy red lights and sirens outside the house my novel has fallen down in.

And I hope it’s that way for you, too. Well, with whatever is inside you that you want to come out. 

Sunday, December 9, 2012


I have learned to tolerate Costco. I don’t know. Maybe deep breaths. Maybe understanding and embracing that humanity will always be detestable.  Maybe large portions of things I want at low prices like Brussels sprouts and Pam cooking spray.  Whatever it is, I have grown. 

Look at me. Advancing in life. Growing like a big girl should. 

I am scratching a hole into my hand.

My dad sent me a Christmas card. It’s printed with a message.  The handwritten message reads, “Leaving for Thailand Dec 4 and will be back Dec 20. Going to ride an elephant.”

My dad.

I’m watching a movie about whores.

Friday, November 30, 2012


There isn’t anything in lost souls.  Furthermore, the brains of camels are stored heavy with water. It’s a fact. I’ve researched. Try a website called “Wikipedia.” 


Verbose.




I know I don’t post enough here. I could say that’s gonna change, but it’s not.  Nobody wants to hear what I have to say.  They want to hear that other girl. But not me.  S’okay. 





In the world of synchronized swimming, I am a dove.

I broke a mirror the other day.  There were 48 fragments including the slivers.  I couldn’t put it back together.  I didn’t bleed once.

A pre-lit, 4’ Christmas tree from Big Lots costs $29.87 INCLUDING tax.  It doesn’t look as shitty as it should. 

Let me tell you… when I get ornaments on that fucker, it’s gonna SHINE.

Thursday, September 27, 2012


Yet another new Zumba session has started.  So far, I like the songs/routines better than the last session’s.  They are more “dancier.”

For example, approximately 4 songs have the “brush the dirt off your shoulder” move.  I brush a shit load of dirt off my shoulders during that hour, let me tell you.  My shoulders are spic n span after that class.  Zero dirt.

There is also an LMAFO song where we do The Running Man.   THE RUNNING MAN!  I had my Running Man card taken away about 15 years ago, but in this class I am free to do The Running Man as hard as I want to!

There is also one move that I really enjoy and I call it, “driving the car.”  You put your feet a little past shoulder’s width apart and bend your knees.  Then you put your arms straight out in front of you with your hands close together, and they you “drive the car” forward by “turning the steering wheel in a funky manner” in one direction (full funky air circle with your hands which moves your entire arms) while simultaneously funkily stepping forward one foot at a time in rhythm with your “steering wheel arms.”  After that, you do three distinct other funky moves then you “drive the car backward,” which is basically doing the first move but in a backwards direction.   It’s all very complicated.  But it feels good in  the funk area of your body/soul. 

(Sidebar: I REALLY get into the Driving The Car routine.  I feel like the ladies in the class that are behind me are probably making fun of my enthusiasm)

There is one routine that has a song where the main lyric that repeats is “get on up!”  The funny part about this song is that all the times it’s telling you to “get on up” you are in a half squat, pulsing in place COMPLETELY WISHING you could “get on up” because your thighs are crushed broken glass that’s on fire.  It’s like the song is fucking with us.

There is also a move in this song I call, “rowing the kayak/canoe.” I can’t decide if it’s a kayak or canoe because of I’m unsure of the width of each.  Whatever is thinner is what the move should be called.  Anyway, while you are in the half-squat, pumping position, you then clasp your hands together around the imaginary oar, and then you sort of mimic like you are rowing the shit out of this kayak or canoe in the Olympics.  Quick strokes on each side of your body.  STROKE! STROKE! STROKE!

Also, at the end of this song, there is a kind of “call, response” part to the song…and I’m paraphrasing here…where is says, like, “All the white girls…GET ON UP!  All the black girls…GET ON UP!” etc.  And it sounds like a bunch of people are yelling “GET ON UP!” after he calls out to the different races of girls.  Well, the cheerleader wannabe part of me feels very strongly that the class should yell, “GET ON UP!!” during this part of the song. I think it would improve the fun quotient of the routine exponentially.   I thought it would happen organically, but it hadn’t, so on Monday, I started saying, tentatively loud at first, “GET ON UP!”  during that part of the song  hoping the ladies around me would hear and then join in until all the black/white/brown ladies were all yelling “GET ON UP!” along with the song and it would be like on Glee or Fame the Television show but nobody did.  It was just me.  But the music is always super loud so maybe they were being shy like I was and only saying it kinda loud. 

I will try to be louder next time and hopefully I will start a cool singing thing in my Zumba class because apparently I am a huge dork.

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Like Life Was A Cold Wet Washcloth


I think I own one washcloth.  I know this is one of those “failure” things that, as an adult, shouldn’t be a part of my life.  I know I probably should own a dozen washcloths.  Or ten.  An adult amount.  Multiple.  

I might have three, but I only seem to find this one. 

The washcloth is really old.  I think it might even be a Barbie washcloth, but I can’t make out the image any more.  Or there might not even be an image.  Maybe it’s just really old and has saved stains and dirt from everyone it’s ever washed like a really gross Shroud of Turin. 

Tonight I used the washcloth to press against a sore part of my body.  I kept soaking it in hot water and wringing it out so it could be warm against my sore body place. (NOT MY VAGINA)  It kept losing its heat immediately, like it wanted nothing to do with me.  Hot, warm, cold.  Hot, warm, cold. 

I didn’t like it.  Why me?  Why, washcloth? Why?

I thought it would stay hot longer.  Maybe it was because the water at my house has faulty heat molecules.  Maybe the ancient washcloth strands don’t retain heat anymore.  Maybe there is new washcloth technology that might trap hot water more securely and I should purchase some.

Mostly I just felt like everything about trying to fix the sore part of my body was failing and that nobody, not even a hot water washcloth, cared enough to really help.  

Wednesday, August 22, 2012



Light is a powerbeam that stabs a million times fast into the miles away and shows the bad man you are home.

The witnesses are children and you must kill them.  We both thought about it.  I felt the pause on the phone.  I hoped there was a dark parking garage.  I hoped any knives were quick and sharp.  No I didn’t.  I just said, you need to lie.

How many attempts do they make?  Do they ever give up?  I’ve never been afraid of paper before.  Yes I have. No I haven’t.  Yes I have.

My favorite popcorn, I’ve decided, is “Homestyle”.  I forget what brand.

Thursday, August 16, 2012


I lied about wanting to be alone.  Or, I didn’t know.  Sometimes you get something you thought you wanted and then you are like, ‘Hmm…maybe not’ or, ‘maybe, but not like this’ or, ‘maybe, but just a little at a time.”  Then it becomes scary because what if everything you want, you get and then it’s not what you wanted after all.  That would mean everything you are living for, striving towards, is a false front. An empty treasure chest you paid people to help you retrieve. etc. yeah. 

Here is a story I wrote published in a nice issue of TheFiddleback. 

That is all I’m giving you. That is more than you want. 

Wednesday, August 8, 2012


Before I step up to the mic, I want Pearl Jam to open for me.  They will play tremble chords wrapped in thunder and Eddie’s voice will take everyone down at the ankles.  I will brush the hair back from his face, wet and sticking with sweat.  I will kiss the exposed parts of his face and he will let me, smiling, grateful.  When I step up to the mic, everyone will be ready to receive me and I will be nervous as fuck.

I wrote a thing and the thing is now live at Birkensnake.  It's called, "Let the Mother Worry." You can get a free print copy, a free PDF, a free Epub or a free read it on your computer screen.  I think you should do all three.

Friday, July 27, 2012


Here I am. Right here. See me in my gunmetal gray tank top? See the sparkly beads?  The black cord twisted with glitter?  See my mess of hair? How my eye shadow today is an unnatural shade of pink?  The way it brackets the dark brown of my eyes?  That’s me.  Right here. Right now.

This me has been wearing these jeans a few days too long.  Has been trying to get un-tired.  Has been mourning the lack of tan skin.  This me is re-thinking things I’ve always not re-thunk.  This me is the same as the old me but maybe smarter.  Maybe?

Maybe. Probably not. Who knows.  I know I like eating bowls of cereal once in a while.  I know I watch too much television.  I know I like old rock music more and more and anything with auto-tune less and less. I know I like cake more than pie.  I know I can’t keep ice cream in the house. I know every day is a day I can’t get back and yet I am not taking advantage of that fact.  I know I am a stupid smart person.  I know my brothers are tall.  I know how to drive a stick shift.  I know I will eventually get tired of that Gotye song.  I know I will never not love French fries.  

The end. 
The end.
The end.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

I have a story up at Metazen.  It is a husband/wife type of story.

 "caper salad"

Janey Smith asked me to send him a story and that is what happened. Thank you, Janey Smith for the opportunity.


My boss's birthday was today so I emailed her a picture of a black pug puppy lying down in front of some balloons.  The picture said, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" and that was a sufficient birthday greeting for my boss, IMHO.

One of the guys that works at my work baked her a carrot cake with homemade frosting.  It was pretty damn good for a big guy that works with his hands a lot.  Then I made an accidentally racist remark about an Asian lady in our office and felt bad about it for appx. one hour.  It was completely unintentional but reflecting upon it, I was like, 'that sounded REALLY bad."

I guess maybe I still feel bad about it.

I am not racist.




Wednesday, June 27, 2012


This morning I saw one of those movie catering trucks drive past me.  Two, actually.  The name of the company was “The Cast Supper.” 

This annoying crazy lady at work keeps winning the Fantasy Five lottery thing every week.  A week or so ago she won $1,000 then this weekend she won $384.  It’s all she talks about.  Every morning this week she’s bust into my office to talk to me, in some form or fashion, about her winning the Fantasy Five.  It was okay at first but now it’s getting a bit irksome.  I want to win $3000 so I can shut her up already.

It’s heating up in So Cal. Come with me.  Let’s go down.   

Saturday, June 16, 2012

Three Parties Just Today


The girl is four, so 86 people.  86 people seems right.  Sarcasm.  I expect the street will be sardine-packed like Superbowl Sunday party time.  A gigantic bouncy castle.  I am a good neighbor so I will park my cars in my driveway, give them some street room.  I am a good neighbor so I am re-gifting her two new stuffed animals.  I do not need stuffed animals anymore.  I am an adult.

I have a human stapler remover in my purse.  It removes human staples.   Staples go into scalps much like you expect staples would.  If you are strong you don’t scream.  Even if the numbing gel doesn’t exactly take like they promised it would.  Plugging your ears is the wrong choice.  I will know better for next time.

The month is full of parties.  You will know how much I love you by the number of balloons I blow up and tether to objects at your party.  I will eat every bit of your cake except the part with your face on it.  That, I will give to you.  I will ask, “How do you taste?”  You are so old now.  I remember when that seemed so glamorous.  Now it just seems like this is forever.  Like a promise you’ve managed to keep longer than you thought you could.  

Tuesday, June 5, 2012


My Zumba teacher has ass-tassels on her workout pants.  When she shakes her Salsa hips they follow quickly; left, right, left, right, left and so on.  It’s mesmerizing and suddenly I am wanting ass-tassels too.  I think about stapling Christmas tinsel to the buttcheeks of my swishy sweatpants that I am wearing.  How awesomely ridiculous that would look.  How the ladies in the class behind me will be giving each other looks about me which mean, “WTF with the lady with tinsel on her ass?”  I won’t even care because look how I can shake it!

We are a few weeks in to the new session.  I am starting to recognize the songs and the moves within each of them.   I am trying to learn the moves.  It is hard.  I feel mostly like an idiot half the time but I don’t stop.  At Zumba nobody is concerned with how much of an idiot the other guy is, they are mostly concerned with not being one themselves.  After particularly hard, fast-paced songs there are random clappings and “woo’s!”  People feeling like they accomplished something difficult.  I am one of them.

I sweat profusely.  Between certain songs the instructor makes a “drinking water from a water bottle” motion and we all flock to the sides of the room to drink and towel off.  These are the best parts of the class.  I put ice in my water bottle.  The water burns cold through my guts and paints bright colors on my insides and I am ready to embrace the suffering that the next song will bring.

There is a move that seems to be integral to certain Zumba routines and maybe it’s a traditional move in the country of Zumba where the exercise originated.  I might have written about it before but I don’t care.  I will write about it again.  It’s a fun and easy move.

In this new session we are in, the move takes place in a certain song during a part in the song where it seems like they are singing, “Winklevoss.”  Winklevoss, winklevoss.  And I think about Facebook and the twins and wonder if maybe they were born in the country of Zumba and therefore the Zumbians wrote this song in tribute to them.  Maybe it speaks of their technical heroics and eventual robbery by Mark Zuckerberg.  I don’t know because I don’t speak Zumba.  Yet.  But I am learning. (sort of)

I call the move “The Picking Flowers and Throwing them Behind You Move” followed by the “Spiraling Airplane.”  You stand facing the front, then throw your right hand up in the air, then you hurl your right hand to the ground to “pick the flower” while simultaneously sticking out your right foot to the side.  Then after you pick the flower you quickly stand back up again, legs together, while pulling the flower out of the ground and casually tossing it behind you.  You do this twice and after the last flower is thrown you keep that arm up in the air and extend your left hand toward the ground, like you are a sideways airplane and then you spin around to the beat of “Winklevoss, winklevoss” by only moving your right leg, your left leg stays and spins.  It sort of feels “belly dancer-ish”.  It feels like I should have veils spinning out around me.

I have a lot of strange thoughts during Zumba class.  It might be because I am in that twillight space between life and death.  It's not an easy class.  

I want to go shopping to find some workout pants with ass-tassels.  I want to be able to move my hips like my instructor.  I want the ladies behind me to be so moved by my sexy ass-tassling that they become sweaty men with dollar bills that the bouncers have to hold back from the stage because my the allure of the total sexiness of my shaking ass-tassels have overcome them.  Or, really, at the least, I want my hips to not lie like Shakira's don't lie.  I want to be able to move my hips so sexily that blind men will get erections.  Okay, there, I said it.  I want the hip movements of a Columbian belly-dancer-ish twenty-something.  Is that too much to ask?  

Answer: Probably.  




Wednesday, May 30, 2012



The following grocery store aisles/sections have become ridiculously overwhelming and are making me hate America:

-Cereal
-Soup
-Cheese
-Yogurt

How can we have WALLS of these products available for our choosing?  Why do we need a wall of these products?  Remember in olden times when the general store didn’t even know what yogurt was yet and cheese was something that took a week to make?  Those were the good old days when making a choice about simple food purchases took zero minutes because you only had fourteen cents to spend and ten of those cents were already going to be spent on tobacco for grandpap and penny candy for baby William who isn’t really a baby but since he is the youngest of four---five if Daisy hadn’ta gotten run over by the tractor—he’ll get called that until he’s a foot taller than a fence post.  

Olden days shopping still probably took 2 hours though because the horse ride into town probably was already 50 minutes long.  So, maybe it all evened out by now I guess on accounta technology.  Oh well.

My prediction for the future is that grocery stores will eventually be too small to house these four aisles because their volume will continue increasing.  This will lead to the birth of stores that only sell these four things.   Like, The Cereal Palace, Soup City, Cheese Whiz! and The Yogurt Hole.  I am only guessing what these stores might be called.  These are probably not going to be the actual names.  I should probably buy the websites for them anyway.  Just in case.  I could get rich, maybe.

In the future it will suck to have to drive across town to the cereal store and then back to the cheese store just to get cereal and cheese but it’s the price America will have to pay for wanting so many different types of dairy products and also breakfast food.  Stupid America.


Sunday, May 6, 2012

I am very happy to have a story about Trolls in May's issue of decomP.  Jason Jordan thinks it's fiction but it's really not.  It's actually a life-saving tool for anyone who might visit Norway intent on hiking or exploring it's beautiful wilderness.  I hope to receive letters of appreciation one day expressing gratitude on how my tips on what NOT to do when one finds themselves in troll territory saved them from a potentially gruesome demise.


The day is big ahead of me.  Chopped into large chunks with words carved into them.  I will swallow some lying down, some standing, some sitting.  I will wash down the day with dark beverages.  I will try to end this day feeling whole.

Monday, April 23, 2012

Hello, Nobody!

I have a story, "Expeditions", in the 15th anniversary issue of The Barcelona Review.  It's been a long road with this story and I hope it gets some love.

You can read it HERE.

Thursday, April 19, 2012


A good feeling during Zumba is when the teacher or another student watches you to follow your movements. You can see them looking at you out of the corner of their eyes.  The teacher looks when she does the turn from facing away from the class to facing towards the class and has to pick up the correct moves in her new position.  The student looks because they are maybe new or lost.  It’s only happened to me a few times but when it does it feels like I am the boss of greatness.  Like they trust I know what the heck I am doing with my body.  Joke is on them. 

Tonight I kept getting caught up in the "counting" of the moves, trying to use my mind to tell my body what to do.  Watching the teacher, talking to my body about how to move like the teacher.  Then I realized, like in every dance type movie ever made and also Star Wars, that I just have to 'use the force, Luke,' close my eyes and FEEL the music.  Let my body do what the MUSIC was telling it to do, not my mind.  I pretended I was at some sort of dance audition.  40 of us on stage and only 10 WOULD MAKE THE CUT AND I HAD TO BE ONE OF THEM.  It was very Showgirls or Michael Jackson's, This is It.  Yes, I pretend things during Zumba class.  You are welcome.  

The first session of Zumba is over.  It was three four months long.  I am still moderately uncoordinated.  All I’m saying is thank God that room does not have mirrors.  There are some things about myself I don’t need to see and a Whitney Houston-level sweating, awkwardly sexy move making, badly salsa-ing me is not one of them.

I will sign up for the next session which I presume will last just as long.  I think it is working wonders on my thighs/hips/assicle regions which are exactly where I need the wonders to be working.  If I could stab those areas with rulers, I know I would be at least 3-4 inches deep in fatty tissue.  Good thing I don’t have any sharp rulers lying around.

Aren’t posts about Zumba exciting?!?  All Zumba, all the time!  I’m pretty sure I’ve run out of material though…although with the new session starting there will be new uncomfortable and awkard moves I may have to write about.  Some new kooky songs.  New wacky co-Zumba-ers.  Hmmm....  Maybe I will have more blog material after all.

Friday, April 13, 2012


I strive for thin hips.  How this one shirt I have hangs from me in a straight way instead of hinged, humped.  I like having curves as long as they do not dominate and take over.  I need my curves in check.  A child.

The chubby substitute Zumba instructor has left me.  Our regular teacher is back from whatever procedure she endured.  I still don’t know her name.  I knew the chubby teacher’s name but I pretended it was Cinnamon.  She looked like a Cinnamon.  I called her Cinnamon (in my head).

The regular teacher is rested.  It’s evident in her energy.  I’ve never dripped so much sweat in such a short span of time in my life.  Twice during the class I wondered/hoped if our instructor had been trained in CPR.  What the other ladies would do if I dropped.  How they would know who I was.  Nobody there knows who I am and I don’t know them.  For four months now, twice a week for two hours total they’ve sweated and danced beside me.  

There is a thing about space at Zumba.  Where everyone stands.  How they line up.  I have graduated from the back row to the middle of the class.  It was a self-promotion.  It was an unconscious thing.  The confidence in my moves pushing me forward maybe. 
I stand in the third row from the front which is the third row from the back.  These rows are not set in stone.  Sub-rows appear between them when the class gets too crowded.  Lots of women don’t know how to make a row, how to give people a reasonable amount of space.  They stand too close and chat waiting for the class to start oblivious to everyone getting situated around them.  I stand in my space.  They back up into me.  They move diagonal, sideways, forward.  Last night the lady beside me pointed to an empty space in front of them.  The place they were supposed to be and they moved into it without argument.  I was like, yes.

Some songs in Zumba have the word “Zumba” in them.  “Zumba! Zumba!”  Everytime a Zumba song plays I wonder if they were specially recorded for Zumba classes around the world or if Zumba is a word that means something like, “party” or “dance” or “joy” and is a frequent lyric in these Latin-based tunes I had no previous knowledge of.  “Zumba! Zumba!”  It’s often repeated in two’s. 

There is a certain move in Zumba I have deemed the, “My Uterus is Going to Fall Out of My Body” move.  It reminds me of the move all football players make in football movies where they have their feet just over shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent and then they lift their feet up and down rapidly so their entire body is shaking like an overwrought washing machine during its heaviest cycle.  There are times when we have to do this move for extended periods of time and I can almost feel my uterus peeking through my vagina hole as I shake it into the world with Latin flair.  During this move I am compelled to reach with both hands and hold it closed.  I like my uterus inside my body and the gym floor is dirty.

The other move in Zumba that has always made me laugh is what I call the “sexy freestyle.”   It’s when we stop all motion, our bodies in a low almost-squat, and we grind our hips and move our arms in a sexy fashion.  Our teacher turns her head to the side, closes her eyes, rubs her body, her head, extends one arm up, looks like she is having a personal “moment.”  Everyone mimics her to varying degrees.  I feel I am the most un-sexy I have ever been during “sexy freestyle.” 

My favorite moves in Zumba are what I call “Shakira moves.”  Hips and belly-dancer arms.  Hips and belly-dancer arms.  I think I am good at the Shakira moves.  They make me think of Shakira and her honest hips.  I really put myself into the moves in a strong, committed way.  I think maybe I want to be Shakira. 

Zumba reveals all.



Monday, April 2, 2012

Godspeed.  What is that?  It sounds cool, whatever it is.  Whatever it is supposed to mean.  “Godspeed.”  Is that even one word? Maybe it’s two.  God speed.  Is God fast?  What is God’s speed?   A medium gait?  I am not going to Google this one.  I am going to let myself wonder about this  like in the olden days of dial up and AOL.

Hey, I have a small thing in Thunderclap! Magazine.  Please to read it.  Read it at Godspeed.  If that is even possible.  

Friday, March 30, 2012

My new Zumba teacher is a brown ball of a woman and I think I am growing a girl crush on her. I don’t know.  Her big belly, her big butt.  How she wears black tights and pink tank tops.  How her hair is both red and brown at the same time.  How she yells at us.  How she makes certain faces during certain moves.  How she pumps her fists.  How she shakes her shoulders, sways her hips.  How she gets low.  How she likes the music so loud I can’t almost stand it.  It’s all very admirable.  It’s all very “I want to be like her.”  She brought my skepticism at her larger frame to shame.  This girl kicks my ass every week and she looks good doing it.  I want to opposite of stab her.

I do my best to mirror her movements.  I’m sure I look the fool, but I try.  

Saturday, March 24, 2012

That little bitch already had a tattoo.  Part of you knew already.  That one time when you threatened about her getting one and she said, “What if I already have one?” and her eyes and smile were defiant yet jovial.  She was daring you and, short of ripping her clothes off, you knew.  But it was time to let her have her secrets, you thought, and your stomach made that ulcer feeling because of the truth of it.

We all are marked somehow.    

Monday, March 12, 2012

The class is all brown and all ladies except for the one old black man who is tall and has grey hair and looks like maybe he doesn’t know he is in a Zumba class.  He has this smile-stare that does not blink.  He wears a grey sweatsuit.  He shuffles his feet. 

I’m pretty sure his girlfriend brings him.  I think she’s the older lady that wears a white headband, and black tights under white Dolphin type shorts, 80’s style.  By the looks of her, she might’ve been my age back in the 80’s.  I hope when I am a senior citizen I am not doing Zumba.  I hope I am eating ice cream in my wheelchair being pushed around by one of my hot male servants named Clive.  (I will name them all Clive because it will be easier with my dementia.  I will have hot male servants because of how rich I will be one day because all of my best selling books will be optioned into movies.  The Clives will dust and rotate my Oscars.)

A new session has started so all the moves I suffered to learn and master are no longer.  Now I have to figure out new moves.  New songs.  The class is more crowded now.  Brown and black ladies.   And me.

We wear tights and sweatpants.

I like to make up names for some of the routines and for some of the moves.  In the last session there was this African sounding song where it had a lot of “praising the sun god” moves.  Or at least, that’s what I called the moves to the people that live in my head.  A lot of sweeping arm motions in the direction of the sun.  The African singers or chanters seemed like they were singing of how we should worship the day or worship the sun.  I am only assuming this.  I don’t speak a lick of African.   I just made this all up in my head whenever that song came on.

This new session has one song that I am finding myself calling, “The Private Parts  Song.”  The words are not in English.  Spanish maybe.  There is a sequence of moves where we 1) Put our hands on our asses. 2) move our hands in front of our vaginas  3) move our hands in front of our boobs.  During each of these moves we shake and move our hips.  In my head I'm counting, Ass....vagina....boobs...ass...vagina...boobs.  The Private Parts Song.

There’s another dance where we do a mock striptease.  A room full of ladies pretending to take off their shirts, wave them above their heads and throw them off to the side.  A room full of ladies, shimmying off their invisible panties, stepping out of them and kicking them away with one foot.  We touch ourselves seductively during this mock striptease.   I am laughing inside my head.  I do these moves with enthusiasm.  I look completely stupid and not at all sexy and I am so fine with that.  Me and 30 ladies mock naked and sweaty.

Like I said, it’s a brand new session.  These are the two songs that have moves that stick out to me right now.  Maybe in a week I can report back with any new move descriptions that have me laughing inside my head as I struggle like a fool to accomplish them.  Me, all my brown ladies and the black grandpa, shuffling his feet and smiling.  

Monday, March 5, 2012

A story at Used Furniture Review.

Nothing you can comprehend is how much I love everyone which makes the sense of nothing which is the coffee in my veins trying to reorganize how I need to be back in the world today.

Friday, February 17, 2012

Yesterday, up the stairs and up the stairs I held a football baby who kept his eyes closed the entire time.  He did not care who was making the passes.  He did not care who was dribbling, running, shooting, spiking. No, that baby was all the way to Sleepsville.

The girl with tattoos watching the girl with tattoos.

I held the baby and I said, “You cute little motherfucker,” to the baby and everybody got upset at me. 

GASP!

GASP!

more

GASP!

then,

“What if that is the first thing he says?”

“Well, then I guess that will mean he is a genius one week old baby,” I said.

Everybody knows one week old babies don’t even realize they are alive yet.  You can probably have sex around a one week old baby and they will think you are part of the uterus. Like a large amoeba germ floater thing bumping against something similar.

But, no, make me the bad guy.

I ate crackers then.  Round ones. Gave that baby away .  Ate some cheese.  Texted. 

Then down the stairs and down the stairs.  A guy putting a pole up and down up and down, measuring maybe. I’m not sure. 

Thursday, February 9, 2012

The big wonderment today is what we are getting for lunch. 

It’s free lunch day here at work. 

Total excitement.  Whoop. Whoop.

Food that is free.  It’s what rallies the workplace.

I won $40 on Super Bowl Sunday and I ate until a triangle of nacho chip poked through the skin of my belly.  This little triangle tip surrounded by just a smidge of blood.

I pulled it out and ate it again.

Tuesday, January 31, 2012

I have a little story in Smalldoggies Magazine.  Read it here.

Friday, January 27, 2012

I am lonely.  No, that isn't a true statement. It is just a feeling that came over me just now that i put a name to and that's the word that came out.  So, does that mean it's truth?  I don't know.  I just need a mother's arms right now, maybe.  I need to feel deep in a pillow.  I want to feel on top of a tree, tight with no storms.

I have this problem where I feel in jeopardy all of the time.  It's an unstable feeling.  I wish it would go away but it probably won't.

I remind myself how hard last year was and how there was survival and how that should lessen my worry for this year.  I should make a t-shirt.  I should write it on the mirror in lipstick or toothpaste.

"YOU SURVIVED WHEN YOU THOUGHT YOU WOULDN'T"

Probably wouldn't make a dent in my worry.  It's my nature.



I have so many submissions out to "upper tier" magazines and I hope they find homes.

They are good stories.  I have to be patient.  They will find their ways. They are worthy. <----these are things I keep telling myself, rejection after rejection after rejection.

If you are still reading this, you are a good man.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

They caught the guy who was stabbing homeless men.  He killed three of them or four of them because he was stabbing them with knives.  When the news was reporting about the stabbings of homeless men I kept thinking about that Stephen King story, “Apt Pupil” where the kid makes friends with a Nazi neighbor and blackmails him into telling him all about the atrocities he committed.  The kid devolves into something that enjoys killing homeless people in cold blood more than he enjoys having sex…among other things.  It’s really one of King’s more evil stories and I’ve read it only a few times but it’s one of those stories that always stay with you.  I wonder why more people don’t talk about it.  It’s so effed up.    

The homeless shelters passed out ‘kits’ to the homeless people to help them in case of attack.  The ‘kit’ had a whistle in it and tips on what to do or what to look out for.   A whistle.

Anyway, they caught the guy and he’s 23.  Twenty three and stabbing homeless guys to death.  I wonder if he read this story, if he has a Nazi neighbor.  You never know. 

Monday, January 9, 2012

You should try doing things.  Especially the things you have been putting off.  You can do these types of things most any day of the week.  They won’t take as long as you thought.  They won’t be as hard as you thought they would be.  You will be surprised.  You will do these things and then you will go, “That wasn’t so bad,” and you will feel completely awesome as you stand back, hands on your  hips, admiring your handiwork.  You will feel like Tim Tebow.