Le maudit Mo D.

Heady Crucifixion

I get roiled everytime I am reading the NYTimes like the good elitist I am, when I see in the Books section that some author or another is being skewered by a coterie of busybodies for allegedly plagiarizing a few passages from someone else's long-forgotten book. I feel like in the dusty cracks there sits hungry and jealous readers searching frantically for just a nippet of literary malfeasance. I am referring to today's article about Ian McEwan.

I'm not an McEwan fan, but still, the guy was just doing research--what was he supposed to do, misname the chemical compounds that WWII nurses used on wounds? He readily admits to using the book he is accused of stealing from as research. This isn't like college, where people with titles like "Dean" used scare tactics to keep lazy-asses from helping themselves to giant chunks of someone else's prose for a paper. This is literature. Art always has elements of "borrowedness." Was Warhol plagiarizing Campbell's soup?

Bleh.

Flour

Bob spilled a couple of pounds of flour on the kitchen floor. It was a dopey accident, but still, as I sat on the floor to scoop the scattered flour into the trashcan, I noticed a certain beauty and elegance to the little wheaty mountain range. Now it's gone. From food to garbage in less than a second.

I am still sick. We had Bowl of Pho #2 today at what we consider to be the superior pho shop in Austin, on ghetto-ass E. Oltorf. Bob got his shredded pork roll. Bob talks about these pork rolls and loves them. They're one of those things that Asian management tries to warn the white customers off eating, because the pork is actually pork skin and tastes not unlike a leather shoe. Apparently, untrained white people expect buttery chunks of grilled pork and not the dry pork jerky contained in the roll. It's understandable, and Asian management is probably tired of throwing rolls with one disappointed bite taken out in the trash

Since being sick, my pho-eating habits have changed. In the olden days, I couldn't get enough noodles. I'd still be wanting more after my bowl contained nothing more than a puddle of reddish broth and a few scattered green things. Now I finish the broth and leave behind about half the noodles. Noodles have gotten the best of me! Once I was the conquerer of rice vermicelli, and now rice vermicelli has conquered me. The pho does help with the sickness a little bit. I just have a dumb head cold.

It's Sunday night and I don't have Geegster rehearsal...I am not used to this...

testing...

What do you feel when you look at....

This?

Sassy DID change my life. Those spines there? Old friends. Thank you, Sassy, for filling my teenage head with notions of inner beauty and self-esteem. And blatant hipsterism. I am so glad I came of age in the early nineties because of you.

I was the perfect age for Sassy: it hit newsstands when I was twelve and died its ignoble, tragic death when I was 18. The music I went to, the college I chose, all could be rooted in things I read about in Sassy.

Very. Influential.

Bobmenian

Bob has recently taken an increased interest and pleasure in household use of Armenian words. Since taking sick, I've been bandying around "heevant," meaning sick. The hospital is "heevantanots." Bob thinks these words are funny. They are.

An actual sentence using Armenglish:
"I puskeled after eating the basturma. The hod was khag!"

Puskel: vomit
Basturma: an Armenian cured meat, famous for its strong, garlicky odor. Known as "pasterma" by other related ethnic communities.
Hod: odor
Khag: nasty, disgusting

I was supposed to do some improv directing tonight but I got sick, so am not up to yelling at fifteen rowdy, drunk improvisers in a sweaty and crowded room. Instead, Bob and I are home, doing pleasant married things like making homemade pizza and hugging each other. Earlier he took me out for a bowl of pho. I think a good name for a pho shop would be Pho Kyu. Ha. Ha.

Mommyday!

Today is my mommy's birthday! Happy birthday, mommy!

I wrote a very lovely post about her that ended up with me skewering my stepdad in a Capote-esque fit of eloquence, which would probably get me in trouble if it were to be read by anyone but my loving, understanding friends. Let's just say the man either purposely or stupidly failed to acknowledge my mom's b-day in anyway. She's stayed married to this loser for 16 years and this isn't the first time this has happened. To say that I am insensed but not surprised is a tragic understatement.

I am getting sick. Cold. I have to go to bed once my jammies are dry. Sneez.

Thankfulness eval.

1) I am thankful for Bob. I have the best yam-shaped life partner a girl could ever dream of! He is very loving and very supportive of my novel-writing endeavors. He is also fun in the sack. I love Bob and am thankful that I got to marry him before some other greedy bitch got the chance.

2) Limbs! I am thankful that they served me well another year. I look forward to thanking them again next year at this time.

3) Mommy! I am thankful that I have a mommy who isn't dead and who likes me, even when she calls to tell me she hates her birthday card like a giant sloppy toddler who wants another cookie.

4) Community! I have nice friends. I am so proud of the amazing accomplishments of the Geegsters this past year. We got accepted to the Dirty South Imp. Fest. in Chapel Hill in February. Jury's still out on whether or not we can finance a trip to NC but WE ARE AWESOME and people in Austin seem to think so, owing to the fact that we got a highly coveted local award.

5) Friends. I love my friends.

6) Shelter and food. I am taken care of.

7) Love. I feel it. Oh baby.

postmodern pervert

What can I say other than, "I love the craigslist casual encounters site?" It's so trashy, so low-rent, I am wildly entertained by the crassness of those photos of guy's cocks with their computer CPUs in the background, their unzipped khakis still hanging off of their asses. And it's always just a photo of their cocks. The female equivalent, I have found, is a single breast, usually being clutched around its base to maximize its fullness. Hey, I enjoy knowing the time and location of the local circle jerk!

It's amazing how specific these folks are: no fatties, no bears, minimal body hair, no less than eight inches. COME ON, PEOPLE. Beggars cannot be choosers.

Apparently, some folks are successful in getting their fantasy sexual encounter through craigslist. Not just for apartment hunting...

my buddy eric leaf

Eric Leaf is pretend. He's the married man who Olivia has a fling with in my novel. I spent an hour or so trying to figure him out tonight. He's a minor character, and I'm finding him to be a bit lame. His wife is more successful than he is in a monetary-and-careersy way, and Olivia is in the same sad place as he is. Olivia's more his equal and he likes to save damsels in distress with his big, kissy lips. In my mind he looks like half Martin Donovan and half sixties era Mick Jagger. But in an indie kid uniform.

His wife seems to have her shit together and does need him. Olivia does not have her shit together and acts like she needs him. Therein the attraction lies.

Or at least that's how I'm justifying it on his end.

My laptop died today, so the latest seven pages of my novel, plus the plumping of the beginning that I did (which I was quite happy with) is locked up. Bob says he can resucitate. I think I have to buy a new laptop. Bah.

you can learn a lot about sex from beat happening's first album

"So I walked her home and had dinner with her family."

"The best part of sex is walking home holding hands after swimming in the lake."

Young Mr. Johnson was nineteenish whence that was written. Ahem.

I made one of the funniest dudes in improv laugh TWICE today through a funny e-mail. Braggity brag.

i stole this from a published author's website

SIDEBAR QUESTIONS
Age: 30
Birthplace: Fresno, CA
Education: BA, AmStud, Smith College, 1998; MLIS, U of Texas School of Library, 2002
Favorite song, piece of music: DC indie from the early nineties (Tsunami, Unrest), Simon and Garfunkel
Biggest literary inspiration, author: Elinor L.
Biggest literary inspiration, book:
Most memorable book from my childhood: the Anastasia series by Lois Lowry
Book re-read most often: Microserfs, Catcher in the Rye
If I could only retain one book on a desert island, it would be: Microserfs
Book I've read lately I'd recommend most: jPod or Elinor's latest
Most meaningful line from any book or poem:
the Dostoyevsky line H. Hartley uses at the beginning of "Surviving Desire"
I believe you are sincere and good at heart
If you do not attain happiness, always know you are on the right road and try not to leave it.

pretend profound

i guess my problem is, doctor
that because of college and
my childhood
i am
constantly looking for the
ENORMOUS PROFOUND CONNECTION
that brings Italian tears to American eyes
so salty and dramatic.

i look into your eyes and yes i do see a tsunami
a tire track
and
cheap made-in-china version of public love
which is really pity wearing a cravat

were we both at the same rock club in boston in 1997?
did we cry separately in our beds at different phases of our lives over the
same longing
for recognition
for warm arms to hold
for a slim beam of light to show us where the
emergency exits
are?

i am tired and heavy
forced and forceful

wicked and unwound
making out with words
my fermented youth
sandbagged against your dirty tendrils
so close to the coveted mind that
cultivated itself with heaping spoonfuls
of lust and candlelight

oh shit i forgot to switch my laundry
and i forgot
i hate poetry, too

the shape of shame is thus

Other writers I have met

I was a straight girl at Smith, in love with the loudest lesbian in the room. For just one night, I followed around a sixty-year-old dyke like a sick puppy because, my gawd, her laugh was a call to action for all of us confused little writer types to work those fingers, be they on a keyboard or someplace else. Bertha sparkled like pennies in the street. And of course, she had written a novel, which for years had been forgotten but had just been reprinted by NYU Press and lucky me, there was a stack of 'em for sale by the door. I can still see her signing my copy of Lover next to a plate of cupcakes in Alumnae Gym--"To Mo***, with love and sabotage. Bertha."

Of this night nine years ago that I describe right now, I remember a few things, which I will attempt to document here. This was the evening of the old lesbian archival paper opening party. We were celebrating midcentury lesbodom with cookies and punch and showings of humorless documentaries in which the viewer was made to feel guilty if they chose not to take up the struggle themselves. I remember lamenting to someone that I wished my mom were a dyke so she could be Bertha's girlfriend and they could live in Sapphic bliss in a fictional Massachusetts town. We were eating crumbly foods in an archives, a huge no-no, but again, we were celebrating transgressive sexualities, so transgressive eating was only a short hop down the road of sin.

Cultural moment

I was right!

Borat's sidekick in the film IS speaking Armenian instead of "Kazakh."

I'm proud of myself for picking that up.

As I rarely go out to see movies, I had high hopes for this one, but the only time I was laughing was when something was so awful or gross I couldn't help it.

nine years of Elinor

Sometimes, when I'm thinking about what a loser I am, earning no paycheck and eating canned beans in my underwear at two in the afternoon, I am reminded that I am indeed a lucky girl. Maybe it doesn't show now, and maybe my neighbors see me walking around the house topless late at night with the windows open and the lights on, but tonight I was reminded of that fact. I'm a lucky girl.

In college I took a writing class with Elinor L. She is a novelist of great repute whose books are reviewed lovingly in the NYTimes by reviewers you might have heard of. She lives in the the Paradise City and is a charming, funny, and kind human being. And I'm not saying this because she's kept after me and my writing for nine years when she didn't have to. At the time, I didn't believe that I was her star writing pupil. But to this day, she maintains I was. Whenever we're in the same zip code, we have coffee or dinner and chat. Usually she'll come out with a novel in the time that passes between our meetings, and she'll write something lovely and supportive on the title page just for me.

Tonight, she was in A-town for a reading and she took me and Bob to dinner. We had a wonderful time. And I told her about my novel and she told me that my story sounds fabulous and compelling! And I have no reason to believe that she was bullshitting me because why would she?

It seems that since I started this novel, at least one person a week tells me I'm talented. I am indeed a lucky girl.

another lesson in the give and take of elective texanness

Depressing: Rainbow Rick was predictably reelected.

Not depressing: D. Garza lives in my neighborhood! He's the nicest rockstar ever. Actually said hi to me today at the new coffee place. I should quit being such a shy-assed coward and just say hi to the guy. He's not just a rockstar! He's a neighbor!

My legs, and some summery fun

GGG promo shot, October 1, 2006

sheiBe!

Last night at improv, Marc was going around asking how much you everyone would require in payment for participating in a German sheiBe-porn film (Big B=eszett). I said $500. Someone went as low as $35. One prudishly replied $5000. For awhile there, the conversation seemed to be going in the direction of funding and casting such a film. I love improvisers.

Today a bunch of folks from Bob's troupe drove to La Grange, TX to buy poppy seed rolls. We first stopped off at Waffle House and grew obsessed with WH hashbrown construction arcana (scattered, smothered, covered, etc). For about 45 miles on our drive to La Grange, everyone in the car kept hollering out their own past-tense verb/adjectival hashbrown designations, such as:

battered, deflated, depressed, and rejected
flattered, purged, annihilated, and arraigned

We had over 300 and now I can't think of any!

There is also a giant sign in Bastrop advertising different styles of candied pecans on a rolling LED sign. The ride home consisted of chanting PECANS! CHOCOLATE! COVERED! PECANS! SUGAR! FREE! CHOCOLATE! COVERED! PECANS! WE SHIP!

The poppy seed rolls were spot-on!

the failure of an old friend

1) Today at Ye Olde Kaffeehaus und Backerai, I served myself a cup of water from the public cistern, only to take a sip and discover that mein wasser tasted like vomit. Why I feel compelled to use German in this sentence, I cannot say. But believe me when I say that I felt queasy for a good twenty minutes. Was it a dirty cup or did someone yack in the cistern?

2) Beans are still the musical fruit, according to local asses.

3) I've been alerted by friend and fellow Hartleyite S. Bodo that actress Adrienne Shelly, from Trust (opposite alluring hottie M. Donovan), was found dead in her NY office. Mad condolences. She didn't even make the damn NYTimes obits!

4) My copy of L. Barlow's "Winning Losers" is very broken. It sounds like a 33.3 played at 78, but with telltale CD ticking noise. The failure of an old friend! We've been together since college, and now, mein freund has failed me. Again with the German. This album is quite possibly the greatest lo-fi album of das neinties.

5) Bob recently interviewed for a job that might possibly have taken us to Deutschland, near Berlin, hence I am using rudimentary mangled German tonight.

Holey sweater

Currently I am wearing a crappy sweater. It started out a respectable, affordable Lands End sweater, but after two years, it has deteriorated into a pile of pills. I just put it on, after some eight months of not needing a sweater, and lo and behold a moth snacked on it right front and center. It works perfectly for the hermit-writer in a garret asthetic I am not going for, and is of questionable possibility here in Austin, where the sun shines blindingly on 60-degree days.

I don't know what to do with myself here when it's cold. I lack the proper outerwear. In MA, I had boots, a down coat, a number of wool sweaters that I actually took care of (this one, I regret to say, sat wadded up on top of my bureau all summer), and thick socks that kept my temperature-challenged feet toasty. I live a sockless existence 7 months a year, and though I love wearing my wooly pea coat, it probably won't be enough during Christmas in Mittenland, where I just might get a hefty helping of Lake-Effect Snow in my loafers.

This is so great!

Enjoy, before the NYT goons sue my ass!

by M. Kalman.

je t'accuse!

1) You want the biggest piece of cake. You will make someone else look away so you can grab it and sink your diseased fork into the frosting, as if diminishing its beauty makes it more yours.

2) You know you're a fraud, and you're so tired and ready for bed by six o' clock because it takes a lot of energy convincing yourself of the weight of your honesty. Why do you think coffee exists?

3) You smell your armpits. Your own odor is your baseline for what you'll accept from others.

4) You really don't want me to take that seat beside you on the bus, but the liberal educated guilt you wear like a bird t-shirt prevents you from saying it.

5) Just because you have one boyfriend doesn't mean you don't want another.

6) Your car is never good enough.

7) You'd rather be talking to someone cooler.

8) You'll pay $7 for a sandwich but balk at paying fifty cents more for lettuce at the grocery store. You convince yourself that you have no intention of making as many sandwiches that head of lettuce could be added to in the three or four days before it goes limp. You're kind of like that lettuce: your crispness is so fleeting, so temporary. Blink and you've missed it.

9) You learned in college that pessimism is sexy.

10) You still listen to the same indie rock from ten years ago because you've changed and it hasn't. It feels good to wear the same tight t-shirts you did when you were younger, and life was so much simpler.

11) Stop breathing my air.

12) Other people kissing on the street makes you feel old.

13) Other people are jealous of me.