I have a new piece coming out in Diagram soon. It is my Regis Philbin text. It is all Regis Philbin. It is Regis Philbin adapted easily to technical and scientific writing. It is Regis Philbin of your childhood memory of throwing dogs into fencerows. It is Regis Philbin evaluating fuel treatments of your blood. It is Regis Philbin killed by a word. Make-believe. Intricate guts of your mealy, mealy hallway bad-faith conversation (quit asking people, “What’s up?” or “How’s it going?” I implore you).
Speaking of that rag (now officially a rag since they took my story), I saw this interview in 12th Street today with Ander Monson.
I thought it a bit lame. I mean where were the eye-throttling questions, the insight readers need to know? I mean this was the most softball I’d watched since the Olympics, the ones with all the pollution. I’m wondering if Ander sent in the interview questions first and told them he would only answer those 14 questions (this is his usual method; I used to date his publicist).
So, anyway, since he’ll now apparently interview anywhere, I called him up for my own. I don’t do email interviews for the same reason I don’t eat cattle caged in tiny boxes and shot up with pig endorphins, Gatorade, and eyeballs. Ethics.
Sean (big, lion’s voice): I find it really fascinating you can sit there and use phrases like “dialectics in literature” and “soul of the world” and “refectory fable the way of Balzac” when discussing your work but have yet to mention nachos. You know, nachos.
Ander (dry cough): Actually I am not sitting. I am standing in the shallow end of my pool in Arizona and throwing discs into a disc golf basket I have perched atop an Octoilla cactus. And I do mention nachos in my writings. More than once. You’re one of those interviewers who haven’t even read the very work of the artist you question.
S: Let’s move on. If I was to say the essay form is a liar’s holiday, how would you respond?
A: If you bring a cat to a yak fight you better have one wonderful cat.
S: You are a member of several institutions: marriage, academia, Netflix, etc. Doesn’t the institution institutionalize the writer? Doesn’t it rip out the piss, guts, spleen, blood, sputum, sperm, urine of the writer’s very soul?
A: Piss and urine are redundant.
S: Would you like to tell your audience why your car was discontinued from production?
A: Two words: snow.
S: If you had only a week to live what would you write?
A: I wouldn’t write. I would Disc Holf.
S: Disc Holf?
A: Disc golf, on horseback.
S: What are you reading right now?
A: The tiny print on a very large check.
S: Really? What do you stand for?
A: Don’t drive your house, ok? Don’t live in your car. It’s that simple.
S: Finally, what do you say to all of those readers who have noticed a certain distillation in the ethical three-dimensional narrative of your writing, basically stating no difference between living, dead, and Latinate vocabulary of the one-line incomplete expressive sounds, the patterns, etc., specifically as it relates to the by-gone days of print culture, as you clearly address more than once?
(unfortunately, we lose our connection here)
Ander, during a sunny AZ day of “Disc Holf”