Do you know the way(a) to Arizona?

Just returned from a delightful visit with my Roommate-For-Life, Laura. We were college roomies sophomore year and beyond. She's currently attending the University of Arizona for her PhD in audiology, but came home for the Thanksgiving holiday.

We met at Starbucks then continued the visit at Laura's house, where I saw her always-lovely mom as well. Arizona is one of my top choices for grad school (on the days I'm keen on continuing my education), so it's useful to have an honest source about the school and it's locale. Laura loves Arizona, school and state. She has yet to spot a scorpion. It's 80 degrees there still and everyday is sunny. Maybe I'm lame, but climate is crucial to my happiness.

Today my grandma suggested I go to the doctor to see if I have hot blood running through my veins. At first I thought this an attack on my non-existent dating life, but she was referring to my constant coldness. I don't know what my deal is, but I'm always freezing. Is this a girl thing? Did my Buffalo childhood not toughen me up? Brrrrr.

Am I off track? I'm off track.

So Laura loves Arizona. Laura goes to Arizona. Those are two major pluses for AZ. Now all I have to do is convince Arizona to accept me and give me a teaching assistantship. A great way to do this involves updating my blog rather than working on my application.

The deadline is December 1. I've given up revising my writing sample. I've also given up on my personal statement. And condensing my CV into a 1-page resume isn't going so well either. Oh well. The elves and fairies should be along any moment to take care of everything.

Speaking of fairies, I saw RENT this weekend. Somehow I managed to never see the play or hear the soundtrack. Wow, great music. Stellar performances. I want to be on Broadway now. Also saw Harry Potter. People give me grief about crushing on HP since he's only 16 (which is not that young really), but he's hot. And in that bath scene? He's buff! Well, 16-year-old buff. What am I doing? If you want to read about movies, click here.

Am I off track again? No! Because I never truly had one.

Good news for me-- I've started reading again. Heart of a Woman by Maya Angelou. Great read so far. I even tried to read it while driving from Buffalo to Pittsburgh, but don't tell my parents that.

Oops, I forgot (how) to write

My buddy Zack, The Doctor, has offered useful advice. I've been struggling with the fact that I am completely out of writing practice. Which would be fine, except, oops, I'm currently applying to graduate schools for writing. They kinda require this thing called a writing sample. Not writing well may hurt my chances of being accepted. Just a guess.

Back to Zack. He suggested I write something unrelated to grad school. Even though he provided me with a helpful tip, don't go thinking Zack is great. Not too long ago he ruined my life by okaying the pairing up of someone with another someone when I was crushing on the one someone. So, really, he owed me.

His specific instructions are to write fiction with the leading man being black or Asian, my choice. I haven't written a word of fiction since my freshmen year of college. I suppose some of my academic papers contained fiction; however, I believe the correct term is “bullshit,” not fiction. Two problems with Zack's otherwise wonderful advice: 1. I can't write fiction and 2. The blacks and Asians are already everywhere, so I’d rather not make more of them. Yet despite my limited fiction abilities and the abundance of minorities, I’d like to give this a shot.

UPADTE: Another request has come in. J.J. has asked for erotic writing. I'll see what I can do.


************

Many moons ago, in late 2003, a group of five male Pitte students traveled far and wide during their Kwanzaa Break to visit two female Pitte students in a city called Buffalonia. Truth be told, however, the true reason the group ventured to beautiful Buffalonia was to attend a football game between the Pittsland Child Molesters and the Buffalonia Organ Donors. Just so you're not distracted by suspense for the duration of this story, the Child Molesters lost 79-0 to the Organ Donors, even after numerous acts of cheating and violence.

The night before The Game, the male Pitte students arrived in Buffalonia so they could go to The Game the next day with the rising of the sun. Problems started the moment they entered beautiful, carefree Buffalonia. The first car load, consisting of three Pitte boys, a classy bunch, didn't want to show up at the house at which they would be spending the night empty handed. They had plans to buy the woman of the house I glamorous diamond necklace and the man of the house a powerful handgun.

But alas! It was Kwanzaa. The jewelry and firearm stores, including Wal-Mart, were closed for the holiday. They drove around Buffalonia for a while in denial until they saw a beacon, a red and white light of hope, coming from the supermarket Pots Friendlyish Markets, which was open despite the Kwanzaa holiday. Pots was owned by a racist Asian who didn't like blacks, and, therefore, didn't close the store.

As always, racism worked on the behalf of the Pitte students searching for the perfect gift. To this day, the three Pitte boys claim the bottle of Spumanti in aisle two called out to them with a sweet, sweet song. Of course they bought it and eagerly proceeded to their final destination, the house of the most beautiful girl in all of Buffalonia, Marita Wolarczek .

The three Pitte boys arrived at 15 Southcotton Avenue around 6 p.m. on this 2003 Kwanzaa evening. Spumanti in hand, they rang the doorbell.

Nothing.

They rang it again.

Nothing.

No problem, they thought. We'll call Marita. All three of them had her on speed dial because she was the most beautiful girl in Buffalonia. They called. The phone rang and rang.

Nothing.

Uh oh. Time to regroup. The Pitte boys left the front door to check their information. They had the right address. Marita knew they were coming. What's was going on??

WARNING! WARNING! EROTICA COMING! COMING. HA.

Turns out, the doorbell was broken. And Marita's phone? Well... Marita, being the most beautiful girl in Buffalonia was having lesbian Catholic sex with the most beautiful girl in the Buffalonia suburb of Hamherst, Telissa Afterie. Since they were both Catholic, and really not lesbians at all, just bored, the sex consisted of rubbing against each other while fully clothed. Telissa insisted on having the TV on during this interaction so Marita didn't hear her phone. Noticing that Telissa was more into watching TV than rubbing against her, Marita stopped the Catholic lesbian sex, and just in time to hear her phone ring again.

"Hello?" she answered breathlessly.

END OF EROTICA

"Hello, Marita. It's Zachariah, your black friend. I think we're at your house."

"Oh hi, Zachariah! I'll come to the door. The doorbell is broken. I'm glad you made it here OK."

With that, Marita and Telissa ran to the door to greet their fellow Pitte students. They all embraced and jumped for joy. The three Pitte boys presented the Spumanti to Marita's mother, and she nearly cried of happiness because her beautiful daughter had such thoughtful and good-looking friends. Shortly thereafter, two more Pitte boys arrived, one that had once lived in Buffalonia. He giggled because he was so happy to be back.

That Kwanzaa was filled with joy, for the most part, except that all good pizza places were closed. Only Mattino's remained open because it was also owned by an Asian racist who didn't want to acknowledge the black holiday. There was no other option so Mattino’s it was. But Mattino's pizza is squishy so no one really liked it and they vowed only to speak ill of Mattino's pizza from that day forward.

There's not much more to say other than the fact that Zachariah spent the night in Marita’s bed. The next morning, Brownie, the nickname of another Pitte boy, entered all rooms (Marita's parents' and brother's rooms) except the correct one to awaken Zachariah.

But all in all, the visit was a success, even though the Pitte boys drove all that way to see the Pittland Child Molesters lose 79-0 to the Buffalonia Organ Donors.

It should also be noted that Telissa left the group early in the evening for reasons never revealed. Some say she was too distraught over the squishy pizza to continue socializing.

Editor's note: The omission of the Pitte v. Utaw College Plate Game is not a mistake. Such an event should not be relived.

grad school and christmas, of course

I have my 3 letter of recommendation professors lined up. Phew. Columbia sent out e-mails saying their online application is ready. And it's $20 cheaper than the paper application. Another phew. Now I only have to pay $420 to apply to schools, and that's including a fee-waived one. It's nice to see examples of our elitist society at work.

Tomorrow I have the responsibility of taking 2 editors and a few grad students out to drinks and appetizers on the Creative Nonfiction dollar. For most people this would be a great opportunity/fun. Too bad I'm socially awkward. Look for me under the table.

In other news, Walnut St., my street of employment, is decked out in Christmas stuff. Not just store merchandise-- the city put up lights and garland and bows. It's glorious. I've been listening to Christmas music for a good two weeks now. Bring on the cheer and consumerism.

Picture! Books.

Day 1 of 412, the area code

Blog brings out the worst in me. Whenever I go to type my first instinct is to complain. Odd. I'll try to switch things up.

I got paid for a book review today. It's fun to have professional writing moments. Woohoo.

Hmmm. This internet thing is weird. I don't trust it. I was about to write a story about some crazy editors and writers I've been working with, but then I had visions of one of the crazy editors reading this blog and suing me for something. She would do it too. Sorry, that's all that I can offer because I live in fear.

Today was Day 1 of the 2nd Annual 412: Pittsburgh Creative Nonfiction Literary Festival. It took me about 6 months to figure out what the 412 meant. 412 is the area code of Pittsburgh. I am a fool.

Last year at this time writing was making me miserable. Man. I was thisclose. No, closer, to not completing my senior year manuscript. Not completing it, failing my Senior Nonfiction Seminar (final class as a writing major) and not getting my English Major. I was so willing to get the F, kill my GPA and have only my psychology major.

I was trying to write this paper that just wasn't happening. I had this big idea to write about a town outside of Pittsburgh that was supposedly haunted because an orphanage had burned down there, a priest had killed himself, and so on. I'd recently read In Cold Blood, about a murder in a small town, and I thought it would be fabulous to do a similar story.

Looking back, I learned some interesting things about this town, Coulter, PA and it was neat to explore and hope for scary things to happen. But it just wasn't a good idea to plan a story around a town 45 minutes away from where I lived. The piece sucked. There was no narrative. No story. Nothing. I just transcribed conversations I had with my friends while we went there looking for ghosts. When the class read my first draft they said things like "Well, I kind of like this sentence here" and "this part isn't 100% awful."

But then I was saved! I went to the 1st Annual 412 Pittsburgh Creative Nonfiction Literary Festival and listened to a panelist talk about how people have so many of their own interesting stories that they should tell before trying to tell the story of another person. After the festival I went home and wrote about writing my Senior Seminar paper, how much trouble it--and the writing life in general--gave me. I gave it my own story. The writing wasn't much better but at least the story was. Still, even after handing in the last copy I wasn't sure if I had failed or not. The last day of class, we had to read 10 minutes of our paper. I did and waited for my professor to speak. I think I was trying to figure out if running out of the classroom was at all possible. It wasn't.

ENOUGH. I just reread the last paragraph and I bored myself to almost death. I got an A, my professor thought how I saved the piece was great, I now work for him. What was the point of this? Oh, the 2nd Annual Creative Nonfiction Literary Festival, Day 1. Readings by local authors at Barnes and Noble. It was a delight. Nice turnout. Splendid writers who read well. Pictures tomorrow.

Mother F---ing A

My friends have complained that my blog isn't juicy enough, that when I write something interesting they'll read it. So it's comforting to know I lost all of my readership and don't have to worry about writing all too often. Juicy I don't have.

The MFA Degree. The Masters of Fine Arts. Usless McUsless. Perhaps.

During my first month of interning at Creative Nonfiction, the business manager was asking about me, my plans, etc. I told her I was planning on applying to MFA programs in creative nonfiction.

"Lee (the head editor and her ex-husband. the ex-husband part is irrelevant but I find it interesting.) isn't encouraging you to get an MFA, is he?" she asked. "Because it's not a good idea. Oh, sorry. I don't mean to crush your dreams or anything. "

"Oh no," I responded. "I'm not set on anything. I'm still in the debating stages. I appreciate feedback."

"It's just that you should go live your life instead of returning to the classroom. So you have something to write about."

Ah, and such is one of the many points for NOT getting an MFA in writing. It used to mean you could teach at a university level. Not so much anymore. Universities are more intersted in hiring published writers, not simply graduated school educated peeps. Which is fine. But it makes the MFA that much more useless. A recent artilce in Harper's Magazine pretty much bashed the idea of MFAs. But the author, an MFAer who now teaches, sounded way too bitter for me to trust her.

There's also the argument that "learning to write" in an institution makes you a copy cat writer at best. Professors teach you how to write their way. Schools mold you their methods.

The real selling point for MFAs is it gives you time to write. Forces you to write. At the same time, for a lot less money you can get a job with deadlines that will do the same thing.

Two great writers I know, one is a staff writer at The Washington Post and another is an editor at Popular Science, are Pitt MFA drop outs. They did the course work, but got jobs before completing their 200 page manuscript. Certainly they've written more than 200 pages of quality work, but Pitt needs that damn manuscripts. Two people who work at the journal are drop outs too. So should I do all the work to apply just to end up a drop out?

This post is boring. Sorry Zack. All my mind seems to dwell on these days is school.

In life news, I locked my keys in my car at a gas station and had to call AAA to help me out. They did. Good people, AAA. This stuff happens to me all the time, so I thought nothing of it.

A poker game took place in my house today, as it does pretty much every week. Katelyn came to my room and said, "We have a bet going to see if I can make you come down and play with us." Who ever put money on me joining the pleasant group of people downstairs lost.

I mean, come on. Don't they realize I have a blog to update with stupid MFA crap?

Day 2: BOO(!)

Blog pressure is the worst. No one even reads this, so there is actually no pressure at all, but I feel like there is. Why can't I feel this self-generated stress for completing my grad school essays? It's just that I know I check blogs all time for updates, so it's not very polite of me to demand updates from others when I don't do one myself. Right?

Tomorrow I go to the City Council of Pittsburgh to watch a councilperson proclaim November 7 -12, 2005, Creative Nonfiction Week in the city of Pittsburgh. The journal (Creative Nonfiction) is hosting the 412 Pittsburgh Creative Nonfiction Festival during those dates. The proclamation should be a good time. Word has it they say "Whereas" a lot.

Pittsburgh. It's a surprisingly great literary city. There always seems to be a cool lecture series, fun visiting speaker or neat writers conference type thing going on. Last weekend the National Association of Science Writers had a meeting here, and next week, as mentioned before, is the best creative nonfiction festival ever. I've enjoyed talks by Maya Angelou, Alice Siebold, John Irving, Maureen Dowd, and Salman Rushdie in intimate settings during my short stint here. Nice job with the writing stuff, P-burgh. But you still can't make chicken wings for anything.

The libraries here are amazing. The university facilities are fantastic, but the public libraries are just as spectacular. They recently renovated two of the biggest branches, and, really, they're gorgeous. More importantly, they aren't closing like the Buffalo & Erie County Public Libraries. That makes me so, so sad.

Back to me. I got my official GRE scores in the mail today. I got a 5 on the writing section. Eh. It's ok. It's on a 0 to 6 scale, in .5 increments. The schools that ask for my GRE scores are American, UC-Riverside, Minnesota and Vanderbilt, but none of the others do. It's all about the writing sample. As it should be, I suppose. So that means I have one month (Damn you, U of Arizona and your early-ass deadline) to learn how to write. Or, convince an admissions committee that I know how to write.