MoodyTunes

I received the new issue of my undergraduate college’s alumni magazine this week. Two things jumped out at me. First, there’s no news in the class notes section about my graduating class. There’s the year, and a blank space, and then the next year. That is perfect! Congratulations, class of 1997…you have done absolutely nothing worthwhile! I always new we were a worthless bunch.

(Or, I guess we could all be incredibly self-confident and not need to bolster our egos by sending pretentious class notes entries to the magazine, but what are the odds of that?!)

Second, under 1995, there’s a funny sequence. I’ll change some names around.

Joe Smith has been named partner in a law firm that specializes in something that sounds incredibly boring.

Betty Willingham welcomed another baby to her Waco, Texas ranch!

(now a direct quote)

“Mike Tomlin became the youngest coach to win the Super Bowl title when he helped lead his team, the Pittsburgh Steelers, to a 33-27 victory over the Arizona Cardinals in Super Bowl XLII on Feb. 1. [Editor's note: Please see the cover story of the Spring issue.]”

I understand that not everyone thinks winning the Super Bowl is more interesting than law firm partnership, but still, that’s funny. Especially the extra kick in the shin to those of us cat-sitting for the summer: Oh yeah, check out the cover story about this guy, too, in case you forgot.

Of course this all got me thinking about how cool it would have been if I’d sent in a note to the alumni magazine and been the only person in the class of 1997 notes. What an opportunity!

“Alex has been incarcerated for seven years and would like a pen pal. And coloring books.”

“Alex is the only interesting person from the class of 1997. He has a cat and likes talking with the mail lady, who is the only person he interacts with in between trips to Sam’s Club.”

“Alex is currently trying to attract dolphins by clapping underwater.”

“Alex watched Mike Tomlin on t.v. as he became the youngest coach to win the Super Bowl.”

The oppressive heat has apparently melted my brain so I can’t come up with anything coherent today. Instead, I will explore the realm of beach etiquette with a series of questions or thoughts. Feel free to add to the list.

Question A: Smoking while in the water, yea or nay? I was bobbing around in the waves and smelled the wonderful aroma of a burning cigarette…then saw a man nearby and he was puffing away. I haven’t seen that since weekends out on the river in Minnesota, when people smoked a lot and threw kids off boats and wore too-tiny swimtrunks and probably had mullets.

Question 4: Do you think a dolphin would be attracted by the noise of me clapping my hands underwater? I do, and I tried it, but the dolphins about 50 yards away paid no attention and eventually went somewhere else. What gives? I thought they were curious, but I guess they’re elitist jerks, which I always suspected because they look arrogant with all their gliding about and squeaking and jumping. Look at us! We can swim and squeak, and you are merely hairy and ill-suited to any water-based activity!

Issue D: Cell phones on the beach, yea or nay? NAY. This is not necessary. Thank you, lady, for stopping right in front of me to have an inane conversation with your mom, and thanks for continuing your walk ONLY AFTER YOU FINISHED TALKING. If I’d had some sort of high-powered water cannon I would have shot it at you, cleansing the beach of your nasally voice and unimportant concerns about a stupid recipe.

Observation 11: Kids have fun at the beach. One ran around yelling “I found a ski-shell!” and another let out a hearty “Oh crap!” before wiping out on a wave, and both of those occurrences made me laugh, because I know they will soon learn that the world is not so nice sometimes, but they don’t know that yet, so they are pure.

One of the alternately frightening and exciting aspects of leaving a stable, “Why would you ever quit THAT?” job and entering The Great Unknown Writing Life is the prospect of varied, small jobs. For varied, small money. I assure you: It’s a thrilling experience.

If it’s variety I wanted, it’s variety I got. I’m in the middle of a whole lot of pet-sitting appointments, so many that I’m actually daydreaming about eating canned cat food — fried like corned beef hash with a healthy dose of scrambled eggs, if you’re wondering about preparation — and I’m having more conversations with felines than humans. I’ve thought of several cool story ideas about lost pets and rooting through strangers’ houses, but I haven’t written them because I’m too busy scratching flea bites. And rooting through houses. (Not really.) (Maybe.)

In July I will transition from the glamorous world of scooping cat poop to working on a project called Voices from Our America, which is, in short, about “…uncovering the neglected histories of past generations, especially those of African and Caribbean descent, and preserving their stories.” I can expand on my role later. What I can say now is that it’s a unique opportunity for a fiction writer, and one I look forward to exploring.

I am also expecting to profit greatly from the realm of short story contests, to the tune of perhaps 5 complimentary copies of journals nobody reads and/or t-shirts and coffee mugs.

I am my own mechanic. I pay myself in beer and potato chips.

I am training to become a professional waterboarder. Newer readers should read about my re-purposing of the term “waterboard.”

I drive by my old office almost every day. I wonder what’s going on in there, but I don’t miss it.

To bring it all back to my current “job,” it’s a good thing I’m thinking about pet food cuisine…I’ll be living off it soon enough!

I listened to an interview with B. B. King today. The interviewer asked King “Is there anything you wish you could do better?” and King said, “Yeah, sing and play guitar.” He went on to explain that he wasn’t being a smartass — he has always tried to improve, even now, at age 83 and with over 300 records to his credit (the interviewer’s number…not sure how accurate that is).

It struck me that that’s how it should be. It’s kind of refreshing. We hear a lot about how great everyone is nowadays, so much that the word “great” is useless. I like listening to successful artists talk about how they continue to push themselves.

In other news, I watched a doe bathe her fawn in the backyard today. It was a tiny little fawn. A mini-Bambi. I thought, well, some of these residential areas may very well be completely overrun with exploding deer populations, but that’s pretty damn cute.

The Washington Post’s summer reading section made me wonder what everyone is reading this year. Then, I was pleasantly surprised to see a local paper review Wells Tower’s “Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned,” a new short story collection. I read the title story a few years ago in The Anchor Book of New American Short Stories…if the other stories are anything like ER, EB then I’m sure the collection will be a good read.

I would pick up that Anchor anthology if you’re a short story fan.

Also check out a blog called Recommended Reading.

My summer reading is heavy on stories, light on novels. Currently reading, or next up in the queue (I have a few going right now):

The ECCO Anthology of Contemporary American Short Fiction
Making Shapely Fiction, Jerome Stern
Willful Creatures, Aimee Bender
Tunneling to the Center of the Earth, Kevin Wilson

That’s it for me. Any interesting books in your grubby little hands, or is it all Twitters and Facebookery now?

I was clicking around TV channels today and stumbled across a channel I’ve never heard of (Versus) televising an event I never imagined seeing on TV: foosball. This was “doubles” foosball, two men against two men, and they were all quite adept at knocking the little ball around with plastic guys on a gaming table. So adept, in fact, that I couldn’t see the ball when they hit it and scored…I just had to take the over-eager announcer’s word for it. After the match the winners were interviewed by a scantily clad woman and used the same cliches they’ve probably heard on SportsCenter for the past twenty years. I’m sure Chris Berman and Bill Simmons will be on the scene in no time, and within 5 years ESPN will be covering the Foosball Amateur Draft for 17 consecutive hours in the middle of July.

I used to play foosball when I was a little kid and spent time in the Rec center after school. I’d play with my friends while the lunch lady stood on one of those fat-burning/weight-loss machines that I’m sure nobody remembers — it looked kind of like a treadmill but with no treading…just a wide belt that went around a person’s waist and jiggled a lot. I guess that jiggled the fat away. Anyway, this lunch lady (who would grab me by the ear if I ever talked to loud at lunch) jiggled on the fat-jiggling machine while we played foosball and FOR GOD’S SAKE THAT IS NOT SOMETHING THAT NEEDS TO BE ON MY TV. It is boring and stupid and I don’t want to pay my local cable provider for this inane crap. Please please somebody make it all stop.

That’s all. Back to TV for me. I’m sure in another week or so I’ll be buying a foosball table and training for next year’s main event.