Regis Philbin is god. Dive Bar. Playgirl Magazine. Salsa.

Loudest Sound I Hear Today: An amazing line of storms. Lightning strikes of glee; thunder like a 20 foot cousin. My son said, “Dad, is that God bowling?” I should explain he goes to a Christian daycare where they brainwash educate him about such things. I answered, “Which god?” Then gave him a short speech about Buddha, Allah, Krishna, Huron, Futons, Eros, and The Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Hope that helps him out.

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Arlene Ang is back from summer break and blogging. I think her poetry is like a special store that sells lemon-scented shirts. You should most likely read The 37th Secret Love Poem from The Dirty Napkin.

Maybe since you are an American Idol fan and brush your teeth with a squeaking sound and even shoot Jager at barbecues in Memphis you should read: from Letters to Kelly Clarkson by Julia Bloch. This piece also mentions the number 14. As anyone who knows me is aware, 14 is my favorite number, and embedded in almost all of my writings.

Double Room is one kick ass magazine, as you know.

Double Room as vertebrae of a wall.

Double Room as bone china.

As energy…

I like persona pieces. I like Flash Fiction/prose poemy things. If I was going to write a story about Regis Philbin I would pretend I interviewed all his friends and co-workers. The piece would rip off that Barthelme Kennedy piece we all love, “Robert Kennedy Saved From Drowning.”

Here’s an example:

April 14, 11:18 a.m. From Walter McDerrt, friend of Regis:

“One day I asks him why he only does the TV. And what a nut, a great, big nut. He gives me this look, says he feels like he’s sinking in quicksand. I asks him what he means, you know, I’m concerned. He says, What do you think I mean? Then he laughs and says he’s testing this theory, this theory about quicksand. It’s nothing, see? It’s nothing but something we’ve all picked up from TV, Tarzan or some shit. Said we see something and just pick it up, like a lump of Silly Putty. You get it? Do you, huh? Reege says there ain’t no such thing as quicksand in the real world. Says he wanted to show me something, about television.”

Or:

April 19, 10:00 a.m. Let me give you a few tips on this silly Millionaire game.

* The show runs in about 50 countries (and for those who think the world is so different, it’s a hit everywhere but Japan), but if I were playing for maximum cash, I’d play in Canada. Although a million Canadian is less than a million U.S., Canadians pay NO taxes on the winnings. In the end, you’ll be wealthier in Canada.

* Do not trust the audience answer in Russia. Russians give the correct answer only 11% of the time, in an attempt to deliberately mislead the contestant.

* If you find yourself sitting in the hot seat of India’s version of the game (titled, Kaun Banega Karodpati), simply stall for time before answering. The host, popular film star Amitabh Bachchan, will coach you to the correct answer.

Anyway, that’s how I would do it…

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Here is your Alabama MFA gossip story for the day. I know this is why you tune in, all 14 of you. In the 1970’s/80’s there were a whole group of professors at Bama with major Hemingway hangovers: Dubus, Rabbitt, W (I can’t name this one; he could screw up my life), etc. and they drank hard and carried guns (I’ll tell the gun in the classroom story later) and wrote manly fiction and poetry and pretty much strolled the hallways and bars of Tuscaloosa like literary John Waynes.

One day Rabbitt comes out of the most awesome dive bar ever:

after a long night (The Chukker ignored all drinking laws, including legal hours of operation. In fact, if you were drinking at the Chukker, and legal hours expired, they would lock you in the bar, not out) of liquid lounging and sees he has left the top down on his red convertible. A summer storm has filled the floorboards with rain. So Rabbitt pulls out his pistol and fires 6 shots into the floor, to drain the car…

This is probably true as not. There are a zillion of these stories floating around Tuscaloosa. There is even an essay of the Outlaw Days of that English department. (I can’t find it right now and don’t feel like looking because I need to go play roulette.) And there is a residue, a fracture from the quake–those years affect how things are done today at Alabama MFA. But maybe that’s best for another post…

In the future I will tell you the gun (actually guns) story and also the time the ABI (state FBI) went undercover to infiltrate my workshop and also the one about the flaming bicycle and maybe even the now-famous-writer but then one night I saw her…no, I won’t tell that one.

By the way, Rabbitt is an excellent poet. Here are fourteen poems for you to read.

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Has anyone noticed Planter’s Peanuts new slogan: “WHAT MEN LOVE”? I don’t really see a gender difference in eating peanuts. In my experience, men and women both equally enjoy peanuts. Maybe this was just odd to me?

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In the news today:

1.) Authors will gladly sign their own books!

2.) Authors will set themselves on fire if you reject their work.

3.) Authors who wrote for Playgirl Magazine felt their “Hands were always tied”

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One response to “Regis Philbin is god. Dive Bar. Playgirl Magazine. Salsa.

  1. he he . . . I like the “possibly related posts (automatically generated)” – My blog won’t do that. 😦 The Chukker looks and sounds awesome – especially that big, luring eyeball. I’ve added Rabbit’s 14 poems to my “to read later” list (which is sorta’ long, thanks to your theory of creative writing book list . . . ).

    http://www.planters.com/manstincts/
    Planter’s taps your manstincts! Oh! I get it – NUTS! Fortunately, I don’t have any. Since when has “normal socially acceptable behavior” NOT been pre-determined by the man’s “nut-tuitary” gland any way? 😉 Damn it! I DID so like cashews.

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