Do you like wrestling? It doesn’t matter. You like silly party games! You like listening to people talk about butts! You like that a person who was once a serious poet is now co-hosting a ridiculous podcast about wrestling with her boyfriend and BFF! You like that this world is a crazy place and you appreciate a good WTF moment. Well here it is.
A few years ago I would’ve said wrestling was a dumb fake sport that only preteen boys cared about. But a friend dragged me to a live show and I was immediately hooked. I’ve probably been to at least 50 live shows including NXT, Raw, NJPW, PWG, PCW, and Wrestlemania. I know way more about wrestling than probably any teacher should know and my students LOVE IT.
I’m also like, working on a book of children’s poetry but that’s a ways off. So in the meantime you can hear me and my buds play dumb games like:
- What food does this wrestler’s hair look like?
- Which two random wrestlers should totally date?
- Which wrestlers would you take on a road trip?
- Which dog breed would this wrestler be?
Subscribe on iTunes, follow us on Twitter, submit your own silly games or tell us your answers!
I don’t write poetry anymore. You’ve probably figured. Priorities just change, y’know?
Here’s some stuff I did this year:
- Read 19 novels
- Saw a bunch of PETA protesters get thrown out of Sea World San Diego
- Wrote a short script about Jehovah’s Witnesses and my bf directed/filmed it (I got to be an extra)
- Learned how to make really good chili
- Went to Wrestlemania
- Lost 17 pounds
- Started my Master’s Degree (Reading Specialist)
- Got a jaywalking ticket
- Saw Tim & Eric live (!)
- Accidentally poisoned myself with caffeine
- Attended a 4th of July wedding
- Hit the jackpot on that spinny-light thing at Dave & Buster’s
- Dyed my hair funky colors (blue, purple, pink, grey)
- Took my parents on a Caribbean cruise
- Built a dresser
- Helped my SIM become a famous author
- Saw Gaston at DisneyLand
- Found out I have extra low blood pressure
- Had a birthday pool party
- Started a wrestling podcast. You can listen if you want: Trios Champions
- Some other stuff, probably.
Life’s pretty good right now. It’s about to be Fall in the valley and I can’t complain. What have you guys been up to?
There is nothing to tap into
when peace reigns,
nothing to say.
The dire needs of anger,
of longing, of grief
are not those of
and if anyone is content,
he’s not meant
to mention it.
I am not private,
I am not closed off.
I am ashamed of nothing
and I hold nothing back
if you ask.
But I will not volunteer it.
Everybody volunteers everything.
I don’t like the risk
of where things shouted into space
might end up,
which is most likely nowhere
And I don’t want you to think
there’s nothing left
If you think you can,
go find it in Sunnyside.
If you think your apples
won’t look like potatoes anymore,
think the scenery
will keep you evergreen,
if you think that’s any kind of home
where you’ll be safe,
you probably will.
If you can find it in Sunnyside,
And when you find it,
drop me a letter,
tell me all about those skies-
I’ll forward all my mail to Sunnyside,
where I won’t ever find it.
A thing has happened that I don’t want to write about. That’s a cruddy first line, for sure, but it’s important.
A beautiful thing came into being for me and has happened and has ended and I don’t want to tell you about it. It would make for a heartbreakingly meaningful sort of story, one that speaks of reality and vulnerability and fate and human nature but the truth is that I won’t write it.
We spend a lot of time trying to scratch meaning out of everyday stuff, writers do. I can spin a teacup into a symbol of mortality, a trip to the mailbox into a tragedy, no problem. But when a real diamond of truth gets dropped in our laps we don’t know what to do with it because we don’t want to share it. I don’t want to share it.
Part of it is that I’ll probably get it wrong, and all the processing and labor it would take to get it right would suck the juice right out of it. Part of it is that things lose meaning when you write them down. Part of it is fear of losing control of it. Part of it is doubt.
But part of it is that I just don’t want to. I want something to be mine entirely, something to die with me. Something so tiny and profound must be allowed to seal its roots in the place where its memory will be loved best, where no opinions or changing seasons can ruin its purity. A thing has happened to me that was wonderful, and broke my heart in the gentlest way possible, and somehow hurts and strengthens at the same time. If I told you about it you would understand, but only partially.
And you already know exactly what I mean when I won’t. I don’t have to tell you; you already know.
I have this friend who is certifiably mad.
All the best people are, you know.
I know I’m not supposed to go
traipsing off with lunatics
but a tinfoil hat is not so far
from a fedora, after all.
Today he’s telling me about butt ducks.
He talks to animals, aliens too.
We are at a nude beach
and I am staring intently into a book
We had apples and a honey bun
and some cheddar chips and orange juice
I selected that meal because I wanted it
and he is not picky.
We are at the nude beach because he wanted to
and I am not picky.
Butt ducks are special birds which give you looks
and speak into your mind, “look over here”
and then lean forward in the water
to show you the moon and make you laugh.
They are for cheering you up when no one else will,
There are some of our wondering mutual friends
who say “Don’t get murdered” and “Come here instead”
but the heart of me is with people who are mad,
who leave their shorts with me,
and don’t mind if I close my eyes
and am comforted,
just listening to their crazed laughter.