I was big pimpin' and spending cheese aplenty in the officially recognized metropolitan area known as Des Moines (duh-moyn) Iowa Friday night when I came up with second place in the Master Columnist competition of the Iowa Newspaper Association's annual awards ceremony. Not too bad at all for having had only 12 columns from which to choose at the time. The future is definitely bright at this point, at least brighter than it was.
I defeated big guns and made many an editor ask "who is this guy who came out of nowhere to kick our pro assses all over the lower Des Moines lobe region of central Iowa?" The answer? Gregantor! The space age robot whose at your command.
I was pondering something my old adviser, uh, one Ms. Jane Smiley author of "A Thousand Acres is not Enough" (I call her Jane), said in a creative writing non-fiction class while doing tequila shooters with an editor of ill repute and some other awared winning studs at the Marriott hotel bar. "Dissapointment is as much a part of the creative process as writing itself. You can never be happy with anything you write and it will ultimately drive you absolutely shithouse-rat crazy... if you are any good, which most of you are not." Then she wept openly for five minutes before apologizing, it was kind of funny.
point being that I was happy to get anything before that night until that single, solitary second between them announcing the third place winner who was NOT me and the second place winner who WAS me. I remember thinking, "I'm not third! oh jesus maybe I'm the first place... awshitwouldntyaknowit."
yes, it is silly to fret and moan. i mean, i didnt even want first place until that second i knew i wasnt third. had i gotten third, I would have thought, "good enough" and gotten hammered.
Desire does crazy things to a man. Just ask the next dancer with kids I lay a 20 on. Disappointment rolls down hill, I figure, and right now I'm about half way up.
"Suffer harpy suffer!"
"Ow my hair!"
"Oh sorry, it was a accident."
"of course it is, here is another single. Want to hear some of my poetry?"
"Uh...I guess so"
"Good. 'Your love gave me open sores and this I knows/no creams, no jellies, can take the stinging pain from out my heart.' What do you think?"
"Its good right?"
"I don't get it."
"That's because you're stupid! STUPID! STUPID!! Mommy!? Get me another O'Douls!"
On a side note, I'd like to give a shout out to all my Ames homies who treated eff right this weekend with steak and tequila and good conversation. Sorry about the mess, these things happen occasionally.
have you considered seeing a therapist to work out your issues with strippers? or maybe seeing an actual hooker to work out some of your, uh, frustrations?
by kd at February 12, 2002 3:38 AM
congratulations on the silver medal, eff! now, where can we read your column? i hope it's online - and i hope your as honest in your column as you are here. you'll have the gold next year for sure.
by lavonne at February 12, 2002 4:32 AM
kd, i just love how you pretend NOT to get it. it is the rare, nay, special individual who allows themselves to be the fodder of such well-created self-deprecating humor. I mean, uh, the others are just content to sit there and read and go "oh, haha, he's pretending to have issues with strippers again" and let it go, while you keep pretending to confront me over and over again with your deliciously barbed comments about my manhood, it's just so 70s. we're like the abbott and costello of Bad Sam, we really are and one day when scholars are studying these missives, they will argue "it was a hoax!" "it was art!" "It was postmodern literary genius!" "It was crap!" and we will laugh as hard as we are now... ahhhhhh.
by eff at February 13, 2002 3:17 PM