Things that weigh as much as the Stanley Cup:

1.) 140 quarter pounders sans bun, cheese, condiments, or fixings
2.) 37.2 cans of Hill Country Fare black beans
3.) Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones’ Diary MINUS regular Renee Zellweger with the creepy shoulders
4.) Seven Pizza Hut Pizzones (actually I’m just guesstimating here, but I was top hoss in estimation at Mathlympics in middle school, so trust me)
5.) One Samsonite rolling suitcase containing the following: one pink denim skirt, one black cheerleader skirt with the panties sewn in, one blue knit skirt, three t-shirts, two cardigans, one pair of tennis shoes, seven pairs of underwear, one pair of socks, one jumprope, two resistance bands, three necklaces, two elastic belts, a toothbrush, a flat iron, a bottle of charcoal pills, and a mint condition Morris Day record

I only mention it because when my dad took me to the airport today, he told me that my suitcase weighed 35 pounds, the same as the Stanley Cup. And I was like, “How can you tell how much my suitcase weighs?” and he was like, “I lift 70 pounds of free weights at the gym” and I was like, “Okay, that’s pretty cool.” He was worried I would crush my neck getting my stuff down from the overhead luggage compartment, which for the record I did not do.

OH PS GO PENNNNSSSSSSS

Pittsburgh was so super fun, as fucking always. This time I did a guest appearance at an improv comedy show, a reading/talk show appearance, and a music video shoot incorporating the always popular trashy cardio look. And tonight I watched game seven of the Stanley Cup Finals with my pops because it’s Father’s Day, so yeah, all is right in teh western PA.

Also, recently I purchased a camera, an honest to goodness camera that takes pretty decent pictures and has plus eight megapixels and a leica lens, so hopefully soon I can post some pictures of how amazingly beautiful western PA is in the early summertime. Too bad that I almost always forget to take pictures of things. Also, I went to the new formalist conference and met a lot of cool young people and also a lot of uncool older dudes who thought for some reason that I wanted to hear all about their 40-page-long poems about their cats who are on Klonopin. I guess I draw them near by some fluke of my appearance? Hopefully someday I will look so totally bitchin’ that those dudes will just know that I am not the garage in which they can try to park their bullshit. Amen.

Got a re-up on my nails two days ago and I’m still feeling totally great about it. I think nails are a drug. Yeah, and I’m hooked. I don’t mind that I totally cannot open pop cans without a spoon these days. I totally don’t mind that I can’t pick my keys up off the table. It makes it mad difficult to solder anything, though. But that’s why I’m special. I’m a soldier.

HA

INFORMATIONAL: for some goddamned wordpress reason, the link below is not working. This means that you get to read my highly emotional post about Tobias Wolff spurring the young voters on to a better world without getting to hear it, at least until I get home and can doctor it up. But use your imaginations. Your imaginations will tell you teh truth.

It’s time for a super special treat here at fruitofthesea.com. I have been saving it for five years and no lie, as you will discover. I don’t know why I’ve been saving it, except that a thing becomes more special the more you save it. As in, wine, marriages, babies, and all the things that really matter.

So the deal is that during the 2004 election, McSweeney’s attempted to raise young voter turn out in “swing states” (hello, PA) by asking major writers to remind youngsters to vote. One could sign up for the reminder phone call via some web interface, and I signed up even though I had voted absentee in my home county long before November 4. I wanted to talk to a famous writer about the election, even just for a minute. And, bless my heart, I thought Kerry was going to win and we might put an end to the disgraceful bullshit. So I signed up. When I heard that Tobias Wolff was slated to make the calls for the Pittsburgh region, I was even more excited because the end of his story “Bullet in the Brain” makes me cry, practically on command. 

But as election day drew closer, I realized that I would likely receive my Tobias Wolff phone call during my fiction workshop. So, for that one day, I changed my voicemail message to something along the lines of, “Hi, this is Sarah Smith, I can’t answer the phone right now because I’m probably in class, but in case this is Tobias Wolff calling, I wanted you to know that I already voted absentee and that your story ‘Bullet in the Brain’ makes me cry every time I read it, and thank you so much for reaching out to young voters like me.”

This is the message he left me: [audio http://wpcom.files.wordpress.com/2007/01/my-song.mp3]

Ever since then, every 40 days my phone asks me to save or delete the message, and obviously I’ve saved it. I love how hopeful he sounds. I love how it’s him, that guy who writes stories that I love, responding to me personally. I love it even more now that Bush Jr. is out of office. And not to pat myself on the back too much, but I also love the fact that I’ve saved this brief message through four more years of nonsense and through 100-plus days of what we maybe optimistically call “change.”  Whether we’ll eventually consider Obama’s administration one of real change, I think this brief audio clip documents what it felt like before, and I know I’m getting really corny by now, but I consider this voice mail one of my prized possessions. I’m glad I’ve saved it this long, and I’ll keep on saving it, just as a reminder.

I remember the day when Kerry conceded the election. I read about it in the basement of Hunt Library on the CMU campus, where I had a work-study job as an assistant video librarian. My Personal Essay class met right after my shift ended. A lot of us were a little emotional or teary-eyed about the news because it meant true and indelible defeat. Then Hilary, our professor, told us about his days as a Robert Kennedy staffer, in particular, the day when RFK was assassinated. Hilary cried, and we all cried some more, and class ended early. It seemed completely hopeless. 

The 2008 election felt completely different to me. I will only confess to my mother that I have these premonitions about things, but I really had a premonition about Obama winning the election. Otherwise, I don’t think I would have driven my friend to the beer distributor for a keg earlier in the day. No matter. It happened. For the first time maybe in my rational adult life, I’m willing to completely identify as an American. Granted, there are still problems. But thank goodness we are where we are right now.

OK hello. I’ll be reading in Pittsburgh for Open Thread’s Poetsburgh series on Thursday June 18th at the Waffle Shop in East Liberty, and if you’re in Pittsburgh you better be there! I promise to entertain you to the fullest extent of the law permitted by a poetry reading. Plus there’s a drag show by Drive By Drag, and at some point Best Boy* eight times over Adam Atkinson will interview me in a talk show type setting, which, as I understand it, is kind of the deal with the Waffle Shop: waffles plus an unpredictable grouping of people plus a talk show which STREAMS LIVE ON TEH INTERNETS! I’ll let you know more about that little wrinkle when I know more myself, but until then, slake your thirst for my opinions by checking out this interview I did for Open Thread a little while ago. Or by coming to the reading your ownself. I will tell you whatever you want to know.

*”Best Boy” is an honorific bestowed by yours truly. I invented it when I first met Adam Atkinson back in 2001 during our freshman year at CMU because he truly was the best boy ever. He has won the award every year since its inception, but not without serious competition.

me:  but now it’s made me this totally annoying “oh no i broke a nail” girl.
i went bowling last week and it cracked off most of my thumbnail. i felt so sad. like, i’ve been working on these nails since MARCH okay?
Adam:  NO SARAH BE BOWLING GIRL

you just need to do what my mom did and somehow develop nails that are about a centimeter thik
thick
HAHA
 
me:  i know!
Adam:  that spelling of thick was kind of appropriate
me:  like, DAMN GURL DESE NAILS ARE THIK!

Adam:  HAHAHAHA
me:  SOOOOO THIK!
Adam:  I WAS TYPING THE SAME THING
HAHAHAHAHAHA
me:  HOWD YOU GET UR NAILS SO THIK?
Adam:  WHERED YOU GET DEM THIK NAILS GIRL?

me:  hahahahahahHAHAHAHAHAHA
Adam:  WE HAVE THE SAME GCHAT BRAIN
me:  i know!
Adam:  okay
i have to read manuscripts
me:  boo.
Adam:  i will talk to you soon
call me during the pens game
me:  okays.
yes!
Adam:  k
me:  GO PENS
Adam:  INDEED
GO PENS
GO
me:  GO GO GO
FUCK THE BENGALLLLLLSSSSSSSS

Holla, I was one of the runners-up for the Walt Whitman prize! You can read about it here. The whole thing unfolded in a strange way because the Whitman Prize people lost my e-mail somehow and I heard all about the thing second-hand (every poet knows another poet who knows all the other poets, it’s a fact, go and check the wikipedia if you’re doubting me) and initially thought that I had been flat out dissed without any notification, which prompted me to e-mail hassle them which I was later sheepish about, because it’s strange to write a “what’s the deal with the silence?” e-mail to get a good news response. I guess sometimes no news really is good news. And this is one of those times.

when he said that the waiting is the hardest part. Dude, I know. But the waiting is pretty much over. I received the last rejection from the various residencies I applied to, and instead of being all oh cruel world about getting dissed across the board, I was just kind of glad about making it through the Uncertainty Period and arriving, blissfully exhausted, on summer’s doorstep.

Because I love summer, even though I don’t always admit it. I don’t always admit it because I consider summer a big season of self-improvement, the way some people see January 1. I don’t think I would have developed this weird expect-a-makeover-miracle attitude if I hadn’t spent most of my life in school. In high school especially I would spend the summer plotting my rise to popularity by trying to lose weight and attempting to become cooler through many small adjustments and studied aspirational research in fashion magazines. And then August would roll around, seldom bringing any of the visible changes I pined for, which is why I kind of hate summer, too.

But oops, nothing has changed. This summer my big plans include learning everything I can about electronic music, watching the entire Criterion Collection (or at least the portion they have at I Luv Video, which is a little more manageable than the 800-something films included in the whole collection), and working out every day. Plus all kinds of aspirational fun (making art movies! dancing! developing impenetrable inside jokes with friends!), you know, the kind of fun you can envision very clearly but only as a fuzzy montage based on wacky times montages from ’80s movies. Or am I the only one who does that? Okay.

Anyway, the point is that now that graduation is over, I’m finally feeling excited about all of this stuff. I was secretly depressed most of last semester. I say “secret” because I didn’t want to admit for some reason that I was struggling with such predictable emotions. I felt like the bloom was off the rose. I felt like everything I was doing was less good than the stuff I had made before. Silly nonsense, but not completely unreasonable since I’ve watched friends deal with this same sense of let-down after the Michener gravy train pulled into Graduation Station. But it isn’t so bad in Graduation Station, because all of these people show up to remind you about what was so great about you. And do you know what I say to that? I say YES. I say BRING ON THE FUTURE.

First of all, where have I been? I’ve been over here at the Gay Science blog. Gay Science is my band, in which I do many things, including sing, play trombone, rap, and sing in Portuguese, and my friend Anthony also does many things, including sing, make music with math + sequencers, rap, and sing in Portuguese while also understanding what he’s singing in Portuguese because he’s going to be a doctor of that shit someday. We decided to up the regularity of our posts like crazy in a bid to get an actual blog readership. No word yet on how well that’s working out. Anyway, most of my blogging energy has gone to that project, and big fucking thanks modern world for making me write that sentence. Gross.

In other news, I’m still into nails. I started with pearlescent yellow but immediately moved into the hard shit: safety orange. Safety orange got me a lot of notice and compliments, but I foolishly went for pinkish red as the follow-up, and then I got sick of going to Funny Nails in the basement of the Dobie Mall (those of you who know Austin know the prolific sadness of the Dobie Mall, and can accurately imagine the extra sadness of its basement, and for those of you who don’t know Austin, it’s a mall below a teal highrise dormitory with a food court, an Army recruitment center, a tanning parlor called “Tan It All,” and Funny Nails). Sure, it only costs ten dollars to get your nails done at Funny Nails. But maybe it should cost more than that, you know? Also, the last time I went, the dude chastised me for smoking so much. But maybe he was right, because my right index finger is a mess o’ tobacco stain. Anyway. I invested in a cuticle shaper and a cuticle nipper and some topcoat so I can do my nails at home now. Last week I painted them coral to match my one pair of high heels (P.S. I’m trying to learn how to walk in high heels based on an abortive attempt to audition for America’s Next Top Model, more on that some other time) which are coral. This week they’re bright yellow, which is nice except I suspect it will succumb quickly to the inevitable nicotine staining. I’ll probably try to do something special for graduation next week, like etch James Michener’s likeness into them.

Speaking of which, graduation is next week. I am basically right now a MASTER OF FINE ARTS. Let that sink in for a minute. It still hasn’t hit me, and the future is scary and uncertain. I’m waiting to hear back from residencies I’ve applied for. They say “no news is good news,” but in my case I think that probably means it’s only good news for the makers of Bulleit Bourbon. Until I know what happens to me next year, please don’t ask me what I have planned for next year. I have no plans for next year. Except punching you in the throat if you keep asking me about my plans, which do not as of yet exist.

shaker

Except for WORKING IT, which I plan to do every day.

The motto for 2009: GRIND TO SHINE.

OMG, Max Tundra. I don’t know why it took me two extra weeks to get all enamored, but that happens sometimes. Probably because I get suspicious of ten minute long songs, even when they end up being really good. Good thing he’s playing nineteen hundred some times at SXSW next week. At this rate, by the end of the week I’ll probably run into him at Fresh Plus buying carrots to juice at his crash pad. Don’t ask me why I think Tundra drinks carrots. Sometimes I just know stuff.

Also, not completely related, but I want to know how I can become David Shrigley. He is a wise man. But it seems like, as much as it’s awesome that he ended up getting 39 bands to make songs out of his fake lyrics (WORRIED NOODLES, DO IT), and he makes stuff that people like so much they get it tattooed on their bodies, he could have just as easily ended up being the requisite coffee shop weirdo who hangs out solid through from open to close drawing in a befouled notebook and sustaining weirdly intimate relationships with the lady baristas and claiming that he has heart attacks but can control them with his mind. You know? But I’m glad it turned out right for you, Shrigley. You’re probably way more normal than I’m giving you credit for.

NOT THAT YOU ASKED or anything, but WORRIED NOODLES is kind of sprawly, and I think it would make a better one-disc record than two-disc behemoth. So, in that spirit, here’s my trimmed track list suggestion:

WORRIED NODES

1. Live in Fear

2. I Saw Gold

3. No

4. The Hole

5. Elaine

6. A Truce

7. The Film

8. A Song

9. Maybe

It’s so cool that you guys are too cool to get friended by bands on myspace. Really, I get it, because I’m too cool to get friended by bands on myspace too. Maybe if Austin’s myriad chug rockers hadn’t abused the privilege of trying to friend me I would already know most of the local minstrels. But I don’t, and neither do you. So the point is, GAY SCIENCE has its myspace game in gear (DO IT, BE OUR FRIEND) and you should befriend us, if only so you can be made aware of the next occasion of our bringing it, prepositions and all. I don’t tile animated rainbow gifs of equations for just anybody. Show some respect.

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