Stolen identity? Don't You get any input?

 Seriously. If you are going to steal my identity, I want to be remade as a tall slim dark haired, almond eyed international woman of intrigue. I want to drive a Ferrari or a classic muscle car. I want to wear vintage Chanel and sit in the front row of fashion shows. I want rose petals strewn across my path as I exit buildings. I wants doves released aas I walk onto my balcony in Venice and scratch my ass and belch. I want the largest bottles of Chimay to be served at lunch to homeless men in my honor. I want people to know not only my first, last and middle name, bu the nickname I'd give myself if I was a thoroughbred in Kentucky.

If you are going to remake me, motherfuckers, if you are going to take my credit card numbers, embed them in a cheesy visa card, do not. I repeat, Do not buy pants at THE GAP. Do not eat at POPEYES. Do not fill the tanks of four different cars at the same Chevron in Jacksonville, and never, ever, ever step foot in a McDonald's.

And when you have my yahoo list while I am sleeping, send my contacts an offer to escape to Belize. Send them free lottery tickets guaranteed to win, or the cutest little puppies God ever designed. Send the women chocolate from Switzerland and diamonds from shops in Belgium, cut by masters. Send the men love songs and sexy women to sing them. Send my parents a new home in a warm city and my sisters and cousins and nephews... whatever they think they need to be happy. But mostly, hacker-dude, computerized faceless person getting paid by another faceless entity to disrupt lives and make a whole bunch of people hit the delete key... mostly, I want to be sure that all this spam returns to you.

Because isn't it a good life that is lived when we give as good as we get?

Things I think are Stupid.. or, tell me when I do this.

• laziness
• paying retail
• Disney World/land
• parents that friend their kids and their kids' friends on Facebook
• inequality
• People who tweet their coffee selection, and timing.
• Walmart shopping
• begging
• child photos that are not you as profile shots
• black office equipment=static dust attractant
• angry words
• movies theaters that cost more than $6
• people who feel they are superior- in any way
• printed newspapers (by the time you print&deliver, I've seen it on yahoo)
• bad drivers on my roads
• celebrities who make millions and complain about privacy
• hangovers, headaches, pain, illness, dying friends
• fat, overfed, under-exercised pets
• calories in fruit
• people who say, I'll go there when I'm older
• failing to believe in the impossible

Why do I own this? Item 1

Untitled, a photo by Another Good Thing on Flickr.

If I didn't tell you, you might never guess this is a battery operated heated eyelash curler.

Go ahead, read it again. I'll wait.

uh huh.

so the question remains... WHY do I own this?

I went to an island filled with writers. This is the story...pretty much.

It all started in Key West, Florida

    an island, that to most folks looks like this

to me, it looked like this

Sure, I was there for the Key West Literary Seminar 2012 to hear all of these amazing, brilliant, stupefyingly wonderful writers speak on the subject of—wait, is stupefyingly even a word? I mean I should know, right, because I was there in the midst of all these wordsmiths and smarty pants types having my brain sucked out— I mean, enlarged. And yet?

Nevermind.

Because on Key West, there are not only writers like those in the links above...at least once a year. Yep.   But, there are also hipsters and freaks with strange pets riding longboards down Duval and gay bars with pools in the back, and—wait for it— killer drag shows at 9pm.

No, I'm not shitting you.

Only I would go to a writing seminar, attend an intense and eye-opening writing workshop, then come home to tell everyone about the nicest drag queen ever, Inga,

and share all the new parodies I learned from this girl.

 Sigh. You just can't take me anywhere, can you?

( be patient. I've posted a parody at the end of this soliloquy.)

But back to the writers and the real reason I was on this bizarre island—too near to Cuba.

I have finally figured out that I really, truly need a good dose of literary stuff to keep me going. Granted, most of these folks are more well schooled, better trained and larger published than moi... 

but I stick by my motto, "Fake it till you make it."

With that in mind, I spent a week skirting questions posed by twenty and thirty year old MFA'ers about denouement and alliteration, about artistic selectivity and analytical persuasion, choosing instead to pepper the conversation with questions like: Did you see who he's with? OMG, was that Margaret Atwood farting in the next stall? and, Hey, who wants to get a beer?

Okay, I'm kidding about the farting thing. But Dame Margaret was definitely there, and I most definitely danced to the oldies with Michael Cunningham, though for us it was kinda like dancing to songs from high school, and we, sadly knew all the words.

I spent four days in this totally cool chick's workshop, and loved her even more when it was over than I first did when reading about her solo travels and the story of Lupe in San Miguel. There are those times when you read something or hear a comment and think, Oh, yes, I thought the same thing.  

How wonderful to sit in the same room with someone who does that for you,

 and be able to nod at them across the room. 

There were, as in every writing getaway, a crapload of story beginnings and notes floating around on my i-pad and phone. I'll take a few days to transcribe the ones I think are worthwhile, but probably pitch the drunken musings from the bar cocktail napkin, unless anyone would be interested in a living on the fringe story about a guy who writes the lyrics to popular song parodies for drag queens, while living in his mother's basement and battling milk and sun allergies.

right.

 So back home I came. After reminding this guy of a joke in our past

 and getting signed books by Joyce Carol Oates, Margaret Atwood, Jennifer Egan, Gary Shteyngart

 and my dance partner and sidewalk companion, Michael Cunningham.. and yes, I will admit,
 I told him—even though my agent said not to—that my book,
Not Waving, Drowning was called
 in a review, The Hours in Savannah. And even though I had the balls to compare my work to a Pulitzer Prize winning book, he was genuinely kind enough to chat about it.

So, until I download more of the photos and get the "ok" from my new lit pals to post their images, and tell (in code, of course) their stories.... I'll leave you with this.

are you ready for some Tebow?

What happens when writers take over the town. Oh, and 5000 relay runners.

I'm in Key West. A place a friend described as "like New orleans, only classier."
After seeing the guy on the longboard skateboard, with a frozen drink in one hand being pulled through traffic by his dog... I'm not so sure.

Let's start with a few pictures, then I have to go do some writerly things.



 The tiny airport entry with creepy fake people to welcome us to the Conch Republic.  (if you want to know how that came about, check this out.

 

             This in Duval street. Typical Duval Street.

 

This is one view of the 3rd place Holiday lights winner's house.... mind you, it's Jan 8.

 And this is one of the reasons I'm here.
 Jennifer Egan

Happy 2012!

Untitled, a photo by Another Good Thing on Flickr.

It's a beautiful new year... and an even one at that.
which in numerology even numbers mean...it's a Feminine one. One of nurturing, unselfish, patient, yet dark days ( more deep than sad, I think.)
In my world, even years generally mean a settling in, acceptance and then, moving ahead.