Before the race I needed a martini, preferably alongside a giant pink scabbed elephant (teenagers tore off his cool sunglasses). Wow, has the Pinkaderm seen better days…
But what about the race, Sean? I finished 7th overall, a holy number. I ran slow. I am out of 5k shape, folks. My lungs felt like big blue plastic vats. Like erotic paintings of farewell. They spleened me.
The highlights from the race for me:
1.) Men and women in running gear. Whenever I get into a crowd of men and women in running gear, my mood elevates. I can sense our pleasurable anxiety, our purpose. There is an aura, a crisp glow of hardened calves and heart-thrum.
2.) I saw a beautiful black horse on mile two. This was the zoo so who knows the geographic or spiritual origins of this horse. It just watched me run by, then nodded. They call that narcissistic thinking when you believe a horse gave you a nonverbal gesture. Ok, it may have nodded to an acorn, or a puddle. Anyway.
3.) Two of my friends from Michigan showed up and yelled, “Go Sean!” at the finish. That’s always a nice feeling. Right after the race, as I stood there gasping in wonderful pain, my pal Nate, who I had not seen in maybe a year, walked up and shouted, “You’re wearing Nikes?!” I still don’t know what he meant.
MALE AGE GROUP: 35 - 39 BIB SEX GUN CHIP PLACE O'ALL NO. PlC NAME AGE TIME TIME PACE ===== ===== ===== ==== =================== === ======= ======= ===== 1 7 857 7 SEAN LOVELACE 38 18:19 18:17 5:54
Slow, but it happens. And I now continue my Boston training.
AWP in Chicago is sick. I worked with a patient once who held a hot iron to her stomach. Then one time a guy threw a Coke machine, kicked open a door, and leaped into the Tennessee River outside our hospital. That’s how ill AWP is going to be.
I worked for DuPont, with chemicals that were not combustible–they were explosive. If you brought one match or lighter into the entire plant, they would fire you on the spot. We actually did our work with copper tools. No sparks, get it? Well, me and this old dude named Maxine would crouch below 50 gallon drums and smoke cigarettes on our break. That’s how AWP is going to be.
One time my Uncle wrestled a deer by hand, I want to throw that in here. It’s a long story but he wounded this deer and then it bounded over a tall boundary fence, into land we were not supposed to hunt, and it crumpled there; and my Uncle handed me his gun and said, “Fuck that” and went and climbed the fence, fell right over.
The deer jumped up! And my uncle jumped on the deer (this an 8 point buck) and unsheathed a knife and they rolled on the ground in hand-to-hoof combat. I watched this. Watched my uncle choke and wrestle and stab this buck and then–now this must attest to powers of epinephrine–lift this huge animal and TOSS it over the fence onto our land. He then brushed himself off, climbed back over, and walked up to me–now all disheveled, all covered in dirt and blood and leaves–and casually took his gun from my hand and said, “Well, that was something.”
AWP will be like that, only crispier. Go here, fools!
I think you should read it. Yeh, you should. Go read it, now.
I think sitting at a bar is one of the great things. Bars are necessary. You know this.
Hemingway told you. He married 4 times to tell you. He crashed an airplane in the jungle, hiked out, boarded a rescue plane and the rescue plane crashed, fracturing Papa’s skull, setting him aflame, all this to tell you. He bet Dos Passos $100 he could catch a tuna out of the Gulf Stream with no shark bite on the tuna (at the time, this was considered impossible off the tip of Cuba–any line-caught struggling tuna was mauled by sharks [this image the beginnings of Old Man at the Sea]) and Papa won that bet. How? He held a machine gun in one hand, the rod in the other, and raked the sharks with gunfire while battling the fish. Hemingway met Gary Cooper and they shot protected eagles off telephone wires in California, the bastards. That wasn’t nice what Hemingway wrote about Stein in A Moveable Feast, or the way he made Fitzgerald look a fool. They helped him along, and, later, he just cut their literary throats. Well, that’s humans for you, and at least Papa knew the value of sitting in a bar alone.
Author addicted to hydrocodone.
Here is where I interview my brother during his struggles with Lorcet addiction. Lorcet is a patriotic industrialist, so watch the fuck out, I say.
Author updates The Joy of Sex
Kick ass article about Richard Yates. I like the part where he stores his novel in the freezer. I am going to start storing my novels in the freezer. What novels? Shut up.
A story made the rounds that Woody Allen purchased and continued to renew, year after year, an option on Yates’ “The Easter Parade,” despite having no plans to make the movie, simply because he liked Yates’ work. In Allen’s 1986 film, “Hannah and Her Sisters,” Barbara Hershey’s character thanks Michael Caine’s character for lending her a copy of “The Easter Parade,” and Mia Farrow’s character is seen reading the book in one scene.
Today I was standing in the shower and eating a corn dog. I had a porcelain bowl in my left hand, with spicy mustard. In my right hand I held the corn dog. I would dip the corn dog into the bowl and then eat the corn dog. I thought, Is this disgusting? Is this disgusting to eat in the shower? Or is it some type of brilliant multitasking? Maybe I stumbled upon some evolutionary leap here, some cosmic link in the megaversal chain of being. I mean people read in the bathtub; people watch the news while running on treadmills; people have sex while thinking, Damn, I forgot to roll out the garbage and now it won’t get picked up at all this week. That makes me so mad, dealing with all this garbage. Why do I use up everything, all the cheapness of this life, of my life, and then just throw it away? My existence is useless, basically. Etc. So maybe it isn’t disgusting? I’m not sure. It didn’t feel disgusting. Hmm. I’m going to think on it. Well, after I showered I took the bowl into the kitchen and cleaned the bowl in the sink and drank a can of Sprite Zero and drove to work, drove to work rather well.
The flying monkey staggered inside drunk, with a kilt, and no one blinked an eye. A possibility for Chicago AWP nacho night, folks.