The Ruler’s Back

So yeah I’ve been gone a minute or two, but I’m sure none of you have been waiting with bated breath for my triumphant return (after all I have made promises before, haven’t I?). What’s different this time, you’re probably asking yourself, if you really mean it why not just start up a fresh blog to prove it? Fresh faces aren’t always the best faces I’ve always said, and so I’ll continue down this thus far failing road (and besides, in the beginning I only ever promised it would sometimes be great, didn’t I?).

Lot’s of questions up there. Let’s move on.

But that’s just the problem, I suppose, and has been for some time now. I can’t move on, there’s nothing to move on to. My life isn’t filled with the magnificent anecdotes it used to be, I have no employment related-stress (this is no complaint, I assure you), and I seem to have lost the passion for chronicling my daily tediums.

I hope this sounds out loud as melodramatic as it does in my head.

Thinking about it, I’ve discovered that my most prolific blogging periods are my least productive fiction periods, which is problematic, but perhaps not since I’ve not written a blog post in several months (minus the immortal words of Juelz Santana, of course). So maybe, like I promised at the outset of this unwieldy vehicle, I should combine forces. Is this a lazy way to fill out a pointless blog post? You better believe it, but maybe I just need to get used to pushing that publish button. Anyway, here’s a little something I worked on briefly a while back. Read it if you will or not, I’m not sure if it really truly is “something” outside a file tentatively named carridesandjagerbombs spring 10 draft 1.

It was something you said, I think. It’s all a bit hazy by now, but we hadn’t left yet, you hadn’t plopped into the passenger seat and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek, your hair wild from two blocks of wind, your jacket caught closed in the door. I told you I was okay to drive but that was a lie. A cab would’ve come and we would’ve split it but you would’ve insisted it drop me off first since my place is on the way home. You would’ve gone home alone, drunk, to him, separate rooms maybe but you were drunk.
But it was before all that, before, we were at that tall table next to the front windows, I think, or maybe it was when we were leaned over the jukebox. I gave you dollar after dollar to play silly songs you knew I hate, hoping the next would be perfect, that I’d turn and you’d be smiling, sloppy of course, but I’d say something silly like how did you know? or this is exactly the way I feel and it would be a moment and I’d go to kiss you and you wouldn’t resist, you wouldn’t say I’m not ready for this or what are you doing?
You just wanted to dance though, you were tired of talking about him. I was too stiff, too nervous. I tried to tell you I wasn’t a dancer but when you rolled your eyes I thought I’d lost you. I saw you dancing with someone else, maybe the guy with the spiked up hair, the guy doing jager-bombs and talking too loud, or maybe his friend, short and skinny, hat turned backwards with pretty eyes.
I don’t even know what it was anymore. It was certainly before the jukebox, before you said you didn’t know if you still loved him or not. Your finger was in your drink when you said that (was it a gin and tonic?), swirling the ice, and your eyes were there too, hoping maybe the answer would be at the bottom of the whirlpool, that the sound of ice bumping against the glass was morse code.
I shouldn’t have brought him up, wouldn’t have probably if you hadn’t dared me into that blowjob (what was even in that?), and then it sat as heavy in my stomach as he had all night and you made a joke and I couldn’t keep him any longer. You said you didn’t know and I don’t know how I expected you to, and when you kept swirling and your lips puckered and your eyes stayed down I had to erase it all, would a joke? I said your mother should know. Your eyes flashed up, finally, but I thought I’d blown it, I thought it was too vague, you’d missed it, but then you smirked and said can you believe it, the Beatles really did write a song for every possible emotion. That guy was an asshole you laughed and then you grabbed my arm and said give me a dollar and I’ll play the world’s real best song and I promise it’s not Rocky Raccoon.
Apparently it’s The Sign, but I don’t think it was that, not how you dug your purple fingernails just a little too hard into my wrist, how you knew I’d give you as many dollars as you asked for. It wasn’t when you said your parents had started sleeping in separate beds and then wondered if it was genetic, though that’s why I asked, that’s when I thought it might be okay.
It must’ve been something about communication, or marriage, or both. You wanted your thesis to be about technology and shifting modes of human interaction (did I phrase that right?), how as it brings us together it pushes us apart (no?). I said my cousin married a Vietnamese girl he met on the internet and they’re perfect together and you said exactly, exactly, we go through all this to meet people we should never even know exist but can’t say a single word to the person sitting next to us on the train. Our physical reality is being replaced by the virtual, I mean think about it, we walk around all day in our earbuds or with phones stuck to our heads, so isolated we might as well be on different fucking continents. I had to take a sip of my beer. Your tone—I wanted to say bullshit I wanted to say it’s not that simple I wanted to say sometimes when you walk past those dirty blankets and bags of clothes in concrete nooks underneath the train tracks sometimes those earbuds are the only thing that keep your feet moving, that sure, maybe it’s a retreat, an escape, but who cares, at least it’s to art, at least it’s because there’s something that makes this all feel worth it. Instead I just took another sip of beer.
I’m sorry for that, it was probably just from the liquor sliding down my esophagus. It hadn’t settled yet, you can understand that outrage, my tongue on fire, you’d made me take it. Asked me about girls, thought it’d be funny to say you’d get the bartender to give me a blowjob. If the lights weren’t so low you’d have seen my cheeks the color of cherry pucker.
I’m not far back enough, still, I can’t seem to find it. We got to girls because you saw me eyeing that obnoxious one with the cleavage and I was eyeing her because we didn’t want the Beatles guy to know we were listening to him spew pomp all over (you thought) a first date. We started on my job and went from there to Jurassic Park to jackets to home repair. I refinished my coffee table and you acted impressed, but none of that is it, it’s not in there. If you were here I’m sure we could piece together how the conversation went, connect beer three to four, six to seven.
In the car, when you leaned over and kissed me on the cheek, your lips warm and dry, your coat caught closed in the door, it was exactly what I wanted. I wanted to turn and kiss you back, feel your tongue in my mouth (it’s been so long for me), to put my hand on yours. Your lips were warm and dry but it was just for a moment, and then they released, then you were cracking the door to pull your coat in, thanking me for driving.
After that, the drive, it comes in flashes. You’re asking me if I remember how to get to your place and I see him waiting up and I see you drunk and there’s a left turn and I look at you to see if you are like you are in my head and there’s a curb and the brake pedal and the airbags exploding and it doesn’t seem like anything more than a moment, thinking of it now.

A Quick Story I Forgot to Tell You About

Yo, now I was downtown clubbin’, ladies night, seen shorty she was crazy right. And I approach baby like: “Ma, What’s your age and type?”

She looked at me and said, “you’s a baby right?”

I told her, “I’m 18 and live a crazy life. Plus I’ll tell you what the 80’s like. And I know what ladies like: need a man that’s polite, listens and takes advice. I could be all three, plus I can lay the pipe. Come with me, come stay the night.”

She looked at me laughin’, like, “boy your game is tight.”

I’m laughin’ back like, “sure you right. Get in the car. And don’t touch nothing, sit in the car. Let’s discuss somethin’: either we lovin’ or I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Now we speeding up the Westside, hand creepin’ up her left thigh, I’m ready to do it. Ready to bone, ready for dome. 55th exit, damn, damn, already we home. Now let’s get it on!

Take That February

So I’ve been talking about this blog post for a while now, and here it finally is, a tidy little anecdote. It was two Fridays ago (or was it three by now? It was certainly March) and I found myself celebrating the first taste of non-winter by playing a couple holes at the local golf course. We’d been enjoying a few days running of 40+ temperatures, but two of Douglas Park’s three holes were still unplayable due to snow. So we set up on the third hole, itself half covered in snow, but the green was clear and each of the three tee boxes were clear enough to drive from. Along the right side of the hole is a large pond, still frozen over, with a couple of balls resting in various places, left no doubt by other intrepid (and unskilled) winter golfers.

We’ll skip forward here, no need to paint a picture of my beautiful swing and shoddy putting. Anyway, we decide to open up a new possibility—teeing off from a second hole tee-box to the third green, a trajectory that just so happens to travel over the pond for the bulk of the distance. Now most of you are probably unaware of this, but the Douglas Park Golf Pond and I have a rather contentious history together. Namely, it has pushed me to the furthest limits of my emotional well-being, getting so far into my head that my entire self-worth suddenly came into question, a mini-breakdown if you will. Well, on a brisk March afternoon it nearly did it again. My swing deteriorated to nothing, my golf balls shrunk to grains of rice, right became left and vice-versa, etc. Seven (found earlier that day, thankfully) balls later I walked away from the tee-box, my errant shots forming a kind of smirk on the surface of the ice. We took a slow walk up to the green looking for balls in the rough (sometimes you’ve just got to let your head clear), and I notice about ten feet off from shore there’s a ball sitting pretty on the ice.

So here I am, it’s been in the forties for almost a week, standing on a partially frozen pond five feet from shore, reaching with my nine iron for some used, probably cracked range ball, and it hits me: what the hell am I doing? Sure it’s warmer than it has been, but when this ice cracks under me I’m going to get wet, and maybe it won’t even be up to the knee but it’ll be cold still, and my feet will be soaked for the foreseeable future and I’m going to have to ride my bike all the way home and for a single, probably cracked range ball? And then there’s this question, this what the hell am I doing; I mean that’s, like, this hugely existential question, you know? I’m twenty-three and a half years old, I’ve been working a series of temporary jobs I’m absolutely miserable in, I’ve applied to some grad schools but that’s not looking so great right now, I’m hardly blogging, I have a half-assed twitter account… It’s a valid question, right?

But of course I retrieve the ball, the ice doesn’t crack beneath me, and I go back to the tee-box and crack a beautiful first shot that lands one foot short of the green. Now that’s how you get over a mental breakdown.

So, Uh, I Guess There’s Something I’ve Been Meaning to Tell You

But really, not.

I mean maybe, but like a couple days ago and by now who cares? You know?

Basically, I lost my job, again. Yeah yeah, but not my fault this time. Or so it seems anyway. I mean technically I was laid off, they didn’t need our division anymore. Was that my fault? Possibly, but doubtful. I am the guy who won the contest ($50 American Express Gift Card, hello), so it would be hard to explain how I’m to blame.

But it’s cool, seriously. I lost my job just vaguely, barely, slightly over a week ago. Wednesday evening, after normal business hours. Get a phone call, weird time, right?

Look, and I know this clause only makes things more unclear, but it’s cool, seriously. So is the life of a temp. I’ve got a new job now. Pays better, laxer dress code, get Fridays off but paid for them anyway… Not so bad, right? Same sort of gig, glorified Maritz if you will. Could barely pretend to like the position in the interview. Got the job anyway. So is the life of a temp.

Best part of the deal? Week and a half off. So is the life of a temp.

A New Leaf

It was never my intention to build a blog on sillyness and sarcasm, but I suppose when you consider the vast randomness of the internet every time you look at the publish button it makes it harder to share something meaningful and sincere. Or maybe just for me, or something, or whatever. Either way, I’ve decided to drop that facade (fleetingly), and let you all in on something that actually matters. I’m sending off a manuscript on Wednesday, the first real feeling step in this convoluted process. Here’s the actual personal statement that goes along with it: full of my actual thoughts and with only the tiniest droplets of jest sprinkled in. I’m not looking for critiques, or praise, or derision (though if you notice something glaring don’t hesitate to do me a fast one). If I’m going to put this much work into a poorly transitioned but honest piece of writing where does it belong besides the blogosphere?

Dear Selection Committee,

Though I suspect some might argue otherwise, I’ve come to believe that writing is ultimately an act of generosity. We’ve sought from our earliest times to share what we know to be true, whether tales of the Gods or safest crossing of the river. In this same tradition writing has survived. We write because we hope our thoughts might instruct, might serve another as they have us. Vain, sure. Selfish, hardly.
In my second year at Truman State University a close friend and I decided to form a weekly, extra-curricular writing workshop that would come to be known as Notes from the Underground. It seems nearly a miracle that despite our ramshackle leadership, despite being strangers many of us to start, despite devoting each meeting to a single author’s work a true fellowship developed to encourage, share, and scrutinize. But yet of course—that same penchant for giving that infects the storyteller provides the backbone of the workshop. I attended not with selfish hopes that others would come my turn but because I felt able to bring valuable insight to the discussion. My discourse was a gift to the community, much as theirs was to me.
It seems hardly coincidental that this concept permeates other professions so favored by the writer: teacher, publisher, editor. Working at Truman State’s Writing Center I saw firsthand my peers struggle to assist clients wrestling with wholly unfamiliar problems, be it a second-language learner and pesky grammatical miscues or a would-be medical student defending their worth to a board of doctors. At each of the publications I worked for—The Monitor, Windfall, and Black Market Review—we tired ourselves not to see our names on a silly masthead but to put out a volume that people would appreciate.
Since graduation I’ve relocated to the fantastic city of Chicago in search of more than the rigors and responsibility of a non-academic lifestyle. I can’t imagine anything more helpful to a writer than exposure to new peoples and places. It is a duty of the writer to attempt to capture the beauty that resides everywhere, to see past the beckoning rooftops of Florence and find it as Camilo Jose Vergara has in Granta 108, growing wild on the rooftops of project buildings. It takes intimacy to discover these places, one I can only hope to develop with the city of Syracuse.
However, I need more than intimacy or inspiration. I need time. The forty-hour week is hostile to the development of habits essential to a would-be writer. Even sneaking in twenty minutes’ reading on trains and an hour’s worth during lunch feels secondary to the full-time worries of work. I find it difficult enough to set aside meaningful minutes each day to write, and when ten hours of the day are spent in work and commute it becomes as much a challenge to find the time as the words.
In terms of the conditions I see as vital to my growth as a writer, Syracuse’s MFA program offers them in spades: a committed, engaging community of writers, the ability to devote my days to the craft, and the opportunity to pass along the tradition. I learn as much from talking with other writers, be it about their own work or writing in general, as I do composing in a vacuum.
No matter what shape my instinctual generosity might eventually take—whether spearheading a fresh literary journal or dreaming up new exercises for the classroom—Syracuse provides the ideal situation in which to hone the skills necessary. Providing both an intriguing journal in Salt Hill and a plethora of teaching opportunities, it seems clear to me that Syracuse succeeds not just because it commits to bringing in fantastic writers to teach and learn, but because it encourages those same individuals to approach art from both perspectives.
When I took my first fiction workshop it was as if my ear was suddenly to the door of a secret dialogue between writers. The short story I had only passingly dabbled in, and had hardly any experience reading. But the form is filled with unique possibilities—fusing the poet’s singular love of the word with a novelist’s conception of time and space—and I selfishly felt the need to push that door open.
So, for the past two and a half years I’ve taken it upon myself to catch up on the conversation that has been going on without me for generations. To do so I’ve tried to read not just the historically acclaimed—Poe, Borges, Gogol—but the contemporary great as well—Holmes, Lethem, Dybek. An interest in the writing that is occurring right now has led me to collections such as The Best American series and journals like Glimmer Train and Zone 3.
My goal is to find a balance between the canonical, the current, and that which is neither. It’s my belief that great writing is typically the synthesis of new and old, of the avant-garde and the traditional, and an awareness of how writers have navigated this conundrum both successfully and not is essential to my own endeavors.
Above all else, my ambition is to write stories compelling and thought-provoking. I want to write the type of story that stops the reader—be it mid-sentence or at story’s end—and forces him or her to start again. Stories that move, in all senses of the word. I want to give the type of story that eschews superficiality and vanity and predictability, that finds its own center or meaning or call-it-what-you-will. Idealistic? Most certainly. But some wiseman must have once thought it better to miss the sky than hit the ground.

Respectfully,

John McDonough

Cagey

I promised you sex, didn’t I?

As you may have guessed, a colleague and I made an excursion to the zoo recently. We battled the elements to see God’s cutest and most fearsome as He originally intended them: in too-small man-made imitations of their true habitats. Let me drop the snark for a minute. The zoo truly was a treat with the snow coming down. Maybe it’s because the first few flurries of the year are always felt more fondly before they’ve overstayed their welcome, but I think it’s more than that. The solitude certainly plays a role—it’s much easier to appreciate the wonder without kids scampering and couples making kissy-faces. But that’s not quite it either. In some weird way I feel like the snowfall added a level of authenticity to certain exhibits. Of course the cages are empty, why would a grizzly forgo hibernation to lick its dick for a bunch of strange looking voyeurs? Snow leopards probably actually spend most of their time curled up underneath overhangs. But forget all that, zoos are awesome because I got to see a jaguar drag a recycling bin to certain death.

Meanwhile in a fit of, well, lubrication, I purchased the very album I ‘reviewed’ somewhat unfavorably (speaking of, and I hate to say it, but for once Ian Cohen is pretty close to dead on there). A few more listens has really only confirmed my original thesis: handful of good to very good songs (“Freedom”, “Kinda Like A Big Deal”, “There Was a Murder” [amazingly despite silly accent rapping], “Back by Popular Demand (Popeyes)”), and far too much bland, lazy filler (“I’m Good”, “Champion”). I don’t regret making the purchase though, those dudes deserve my ten bucks about as much as anyone else I can think of. Besides, that only comes out to a single hour’s worth of my unhappiness.

Two more weeks of isolation commences tomorrow. Lots of Bulls games lined up at least.

How a Resurrection Really Feels

Yep, ripped that one right off. But look at the couple dates below this. Got some validity to it, eh?

In other news of long hiati the Clipse’s new album finally drops this coming Tuesday. I’ve been waiting for this shit since, well, this. Yeah, right? Keep it between friends, but yours truly got a sneak listen of the new album. sigh. I won’t go all DPP on you, but disappointment is certainly a motif this year. Remind me never to start a collection with the best story. Reader just spends the rest of the book wondering why you aren’t always that good.

Thanksgiving was pleasant, thanks for asking. My folks watch Entourage, and now so do I. Sure it has its flaws, but it also has its moments, and is about as entertaining as anything else I’ve watched in awhile (yeah, I watched all 10 minutes of that, and you will too after a couple spins through the series. Made me feel youthful again). Oh, and props on the link my tiny little quarrel. If I were to go gay but once… (no homo)

Now for some serious business. Personal statements. How many jokes are too many? They say one every 300 words, right? Sincerely need your help, Blogosphere; I know at least a couple of you are wrangling with this very question right now.

You’ve heard it all before, but I’m back for good this time. And pretty soon this blog’ll be so filled with sex that you’ll wish I was still gone.

Bedtime Bloggin’

So the same week the blogaxy decides to show it’s not dead we lose one of my most beloved planets? R.I.P.

Lonely week(s) start(s) tomorrow. I’ve been abandoned by both of my roommates, and the only recourse seems to higher incidents of naked blogging. Or alcoholism. We’ll see. Don’t pity me, I prefer my natural state.

What type of world do we live in that I learned my dear mother sprained her ankle through social networking? And what type of wretched child am I not even to give my condolences on her wall? Some luddite could make a heck of an argument about something with that little anecdote.

Read a fantastic book doing laundry Sunday. Praeder’s Letters by James Baker Hall. He nailed it.

It’s rapidly approaching 11:30, and sleep beckons. What a cheerless thing this ‘real world’ is.

Too Boring to Blog

So why am I? Cause none of the rest of you are (apologies to anyone who has blogged in the past week).

I’ve found myself in another temp job, once again in a situation that demands large amounts of outgoing phone calls. Am I getting type-cast over here? I’m afraid so, though perhaps in this economy telephone oriented jobs are the only ones available? Since this is actually an in-house job (meaning I’m temping at the temp agency), it’s seems more likely that my extreme good looks and charisma have made me a desirable asset to have at one’s viewing and conversing pleasure.

Pretty big friend-making weekend for yours truly. On Friday co-workers invited me to drinks after work (and then promptly didn’t show up), at said bar I made an acquaintance named Vicki (while forlornly waiting for my new would-be-friends), then at the Bulls game later that evening I chatted up an Australian fellow from London and sweet-talked a nice young usher into allowing my party of three to sit eight rows behind the court for the duration of the fourth quarter. Fine, you’re right, it was really more of a having-brief-conversations-with-strangers weekend, happy?

I also saw a 6-year old pantsdownshirtup-ing into a urinal at the United Center. End this post with whatever catchphrase you wish.

Lordy Lordy Have I Been Lazy Lately

Still no job. Had a nibble, it felt like, through the temp agency, but that got offered to someone else. Pops says I might need a ‘job coach.’

It’s been good getting some grad school stuff together though. I’ve got my 90% sure list (Northwestern, Syracuse, Virginia, Virginia Commonwealth, Idaho, Portland State, Roosevelt) and I’m almost halfway done with the personal statement (it needs a lot of work). Portfolio feels like it’s in a good place, but that self-assuredness just means I’ve got some work to do.

I handed over the keys to the Hip-Hop Hour blog to Ira the other day, so hopefully we’ll get some fresh playlists and flashy videos. It made me go through some of the old posts—I miss that show. Also, I sure had a serious crush on Blu there for a while huh? (Still do.)

Some of ya’ll need to make it up to Chicago here in a hurry.