Breeds of Misery: Psychotic ex-husbands, drunk Santas, childhood

Best/Worst Verse: "He threw a present really hard that almost hit Mom's new boyfriend Ray/And yelled, 'Ho-ho, lucky for you she's here,' and said that Santa can't stay"

Call this one the reverse "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus," or that awkward moment when a kid simultaneously realizes 1) Santa doesn't exist and 2) Mom and Dad aren't getting back together again. A honkytonk might be the only place where this subject matter would be considered jolly, and Dwight is just the man to pull it off.

(If this isn't enough yuletide misery for you, check out last year in my Annotated Playlists!)

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AuthorJohn Proctor

Wow, a real treat here - Robert Atwan, who founded the Best American Essays series in 1986 and still edits it today, gives his notes on its background and origins. Seriously, I won't even try to pick out nuggets; every word is required reading for lovers of the essay, a true gift from one of the essay's greatest living advocates.

Read and savor every word here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

ON HIS FIRST (OF MANY) BAE SELECTIONS:

"...I handed the volume to my lovely bride, who exclaimed and exulted in deeply satisfying fashion, and hugged me and kissed me, and she was really and truly delighted, she is a most genuine and emotionally open soul, and then, as we sipped our excellent wine, she pawed through the book too, and finally flipped it over and read down the list of contributors, in alphabetical order, and then she said, unforgettably, this:

“'Wow – Saul Bellow, Joseph Epstein, Ian Frazier, Edward Hoagland, Jamaica Kincaid, William Maxwell, John McPhee, Mary Oliver, Oliver Sacks, John Updike….Brian Doyle? Doesn’t that sound funny? Bellow, Updike, Doyle?'

That’s what I remember best, her absolute honest innocent question, and my instant urge to shout 'NO THAT DOES NOT SOUND FUNNY! THAT SOUNDS TOTALLY COOL AND RIGHT AND AWESOME AND I AM A GOLDEN ESSAY GOD!'"

Read the rest here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

ON DOUBLE TALK:

"My Italian mother-in-law tells me that America is responsible for all the madness in the world, and it is beyond my Italian-language skill set to both agree and disagree. "

ON THE PERSONAL-POLITICAL:

"I originally called this piece Notable Quotations from The Best American Essays 2003, because I planned to pick out pithy wisdom from guest editor Anne Fadiman’s choices, quotations telescoping what we’ve lost and learned since 2003. But there’s more to say than a mere list: in this volume, Fadiman champions hefty personal essays that make personal and worldly collisions strikingly clear.

...

"At first, I thought BAE2003 wasn’t a particularly timely collection, that it didn’t engage the whole wide world in ways I find urgent and necessary. The essays chosen by Fadiman would have been published in 2002, and as such, I expected to find more of them wrestling with the events of September 11, 2001. I expected to find more sense of the drumbeat to the Iraq war, as a diversion from the Afghanistan war, a shift that palpably occurred in America in the fall of 2002 and on into March 2003 when the bombing of Baghdad started. But then I looked more closely at the anthology, and I further changed my mind as I zeroed in on John Edgar Wideman’s essayistic reflections, “Whose War.” Wideman struggles to explain why anyone “would want to throw more words on a pile so high the thing to be written about has disappeared.” Bingo. How do we articulate fear?

...

"I was wrong to assume that BAE2003 does not engage the world; it certainly does not showcase an all-too-typical American blind spot even in our post-9/11 world. John Edgar Wideman writes that 'the lives lost [on September 11, 2001] mirror our own fragility and vulnerability, our unpredictable passage through the mysterious flow of time that eternally surrounds us, buoys us, drowns us.'"

Read the rest here of this timely, immersive piece here!

 

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AuthorJohn Proctor

ON READING AS EMPATHY:

"For a certain kind of reader—well, for me—to reread “The Stunt Pilot” is to slingshot oneself back into Dillard’s deep catalogue; it’s of a piece, as far as I can tell, with three of her books of nonfiction. So I sit in a narrow seat, lap belt low and tight across my hips, and read. Dillard might be as obsessed with planes and plane crashes as I am.

...

"I am on the road and I am thinking about Annie Dillard—her essays, specifically, but more honestly, her narrator, also a person on the road, and therefore someone who notices more and questions more than she would while safe at home."

ON EMPATHY FOR SUBJECTS:

"What’re you writing? someone asked one night. You writing about us? Of course I lied. But I was desperate. I wanted to write something that would matter, that people would read. I would have sold out anyone to get the stuff I needed to make this work, even my family, my friends, let alone these strangers whose names I would never know, because I never asked."

ON LEARNING AND TEACHING HOW TO WRITE:

"So how do we learn to write; how do I try to teach it? Kind of like this book: a collection of anecdotes and advice, enthusiasm and examples ('They thought I was raving again. It’s just as well.') The best thing is to read something that’s already good and take it apart, then reverse-engineer it to see how it fits together, but as a philosophy of pedagogy, all of this can feel a little ad hoc. I ask Gil Allen, dear colleague and longtime teacher of writing, how he teaches. 'Establish trust,' he says, or you won’t be able to do anything else. Give advice according to each student’s ability. Tell them to read published work, and to read their own drafts aloud."

ON... (whatever, I just love how she uses Will Oldham):

"Sometimes I sang Will Oldham songs as loud as I could and it didn’t matter, because the dirty waves were louder than I was and anyway the beach was empty."

And that's all before she even gets to her volume of The Best American Essays! Actually she never gets to it except in footnote #2 which tells us that Annie Dillard's essay "The Stunt Pilot" comes from BAE1990, which is completely cool with me. Making an essay out of digression is really very essay of her. Read it all here!

 

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AuthorJohn Proctor

ON MARGINS:

"After reading Rebecca McClanahan’s “Book Marks,” in The Best American Essays 2001—which, in part, engages the ways in which a reader’s written marginalia (not to mention sloughed-off bodily detritus wedged into the book’s crotch) can serve to converse with the primary text—I was inspired to write a great failure of an essay comprised solely of imagined marginalia (and detritus) lurking among the pages of Borges’ Labyrinths. For some reason, in this essay, I decided that a chain of spitballs should run down the book’s inner hinge, forming a speed bump between 'Avatars of the Tortoise' and 'The Mirror of Enigmas.'"

...

"When recently reengaging The Best American Essays 2001, I tried, as a reader...to stare into the margins, and then beyond the margins. To, eventually, turn the page, where I found, of course, more text, each subsequent essay girdled by the one preceding it, each serving as the marginalia to the other. What follows is an essay of record, a collection of lines evoking sentences of primary text costumed in marginalia’s clothes. The essay is comprised of one line from each of the essays included in BAE 2001, in order. The first sentence is from the first essay, the second from the second, and so on. The last line is from Kathleen Norris’ introduction, and the brackets are mine. I hope it serves as a celebration."

For Frank's found-list-essay from BAE2001, the best part of the review (I've read it aloud three times already and now feel like reading it at an open mike), read the rest here!

P.S. I'm currently reading Frank's wonderful The Mad Feast: An Ecstatic Tour Through America's Food after taking an ecstatic tour through Flagstaff's food (and drink) with him and friends last month. I can't recommend it highly enough, and it's currently "#1 New Release in Gastronomy Essays" on Amazon. I love that Amazon ranks gastronomy essays.

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AuthorJohn Proctor

ON THE ORIGINS OF THE ESSAY:

"A true essay, for [Sir William] Cornwallis [c.1601], isn't strong. It isn't able to endure the trials that a reader might inflict on it, the questions a reader might ask of it. How should I live? What should I do? In Plutarch's and Montaigne's work, you'll find insight, moral instruction, even wisdom, but these are the very qualities that, according to Cornwallis, make their work something other than essays. Cornwallis sees the essay as something more like a moral process. Through writing and reading them, you can become better, but this is an undertaking that doesn't end on the page or in your life. It's a constant striving, an essaying.

"I don't much agree with Cornwallis about what an essay is—I find essays that want to make me better tough to read—but I love his assertion about what an essay isn't. It isn't meant to last. It doesn't need to meet the expectations that, say, a poem faces, with its leap toward immortality, its demand to endure the test of time. An essay can be all right for right now. Good enough to pass the time, but time will, as time does, move on. "

ON HIS PERSONAL INVESTMENT IN BAE1996:

"Is it a boon for an essayist to be included among the 'best' of 1987 or 1996 or 2013? Or is that basically putting an expiration date on your essay? When I miss reading the collection for a given year, which I usually discover because the next year's collection comes out, I find myself feeling resentful about the previous year: I don't want to go back and read the old ones. I might as well read tweets from 2009 or eat a rotten peach. What's the point, for example, of reading the best essays from 1996 unless I have to write about them, scholarly-like, as being somehow indicative of 1996. You know, ponder the zeitgeist.

"Here's one reason: in the Best American Essays of 1996, the very first essay that I ever published was included among the 'Notable Essays of 1995, Selected by Robert Atwan.'"

Read the rest here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

ON REDIRECTION:

"I had nearly finished a piece inspired by The Best American Essays of 2014 on the topic of essays as containers. Then Paris happened. Since the attacks on November 13, public discourse has hovered around uncontainability. The containers essay suddenly felt irrelevant. Luckily, some of the essays in the 2014 collection could allow me to write about (to process, to manage – whatever metaphor you prefer) the attacks. Specifically, Mary Gordon’s “On Enmity” and Dave Eggers’ “The Man at the River” give language to some of the abstractions that have clustered around the death cult called Daesh."

ON SINGULARITY AND CONNECTION:

"We did not ask for any of this. We are not our governments. We never conquered anyone. We did not personally launch empires. If anyone is complicit in anything, it is that by fact of birth, we are woven into a system in such a way that even going off the grid is not enough to extract ourselves fully from history and politics. The grid is everywhere anyway. The roots of all of this were festering before we were even born. We are fighting the battles of our forebears. Like Eggers’ American, we want to push a reset button that doesn’t exist. We want to unravel the stereotypes of ourselves, to emphasize our singularity in a system that tries to uniformize us. We want to exist away from demands to accommodate or be accommodated. We just want to be. We are jarred that global politics – about which we know almost nothing – might loot us of life and limb."

ON THE EAGLES OF DEATH METAL:

"How to explain to a religious fanatic the subtleties, ironies, richnesses of such a name, of such music? How to explain to them that metal is a bloodless outlet for people across the globe? That the tough exterior of metal dudes can only be matched by the tenderness of their insides? My brother is a metal drummer whose various band names have always referred to mortality or evil or violence. From the outside, it is easy to read all of these signs as the devil’s work. But read more closely and spend your life with metal dudes as I have, and you’ll discover that the vast majority of these gentle giants use their music as armor against the oppressive aspects of capitalism and corrupt power, against conformity and the surrender to injustice."

Read the rest here!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

ON OPENING THE OLDEST VOLUME OF THE BEST AMERICAN ESSAYS:

"I don’t know about anyone else, but I feel it like a stab when I open an old paperback and the binding comes apart with that sound of cracking glue. What had been whole has suddenly been rent and of course I extrapolate in all directions. It’s clear as can be that the world is going to hell...It was when I then opened—cracked—the cover that I felt the whole thing break loose in my hand...An insult, an injury—it was as if a part of the past itself had just calved away from the mother berg. But the mind on assignment is uncannily opportunistic. I had not even set the book aside before I was starting to sketch a notion in my head. The breakage, I thought, was a sign...The observant nit-picker following along at home will have noticed by now that I am only looking to odd-numbered right-facing pages. I do so because I can hold these pages flat while supporting the left side of the book between index and fore-finger, thereby not aggravating the problem of the glue-shattered spine any further."

AND ON READING IT:

"Having staked myself on writing about Robert Atwan’s debut volume—edited by Elizabeth Hardwick—I asked myself what there was to say? Decades have passed, Ms. Hardwick has passed away, my copy of the book has all but fallen apart in my hands…Yet—here’s my lead: when I now see it here on the table next to me, I feel an old and familiar stirring of interest and possibility. The word 'essay' still gets to me. But there’s also some stirring memory of what’s inside the covers, and knowing how I’ll feel when I start reading the pieces again. This is what we know about the best writing—reading does not use it up; it keeps its power. This not by virtue of the reader’s forgetfulness, but through its own intrinsic merit. The right words in the right order are that way because they can be encountered again and again. Real work does not melt away when the eye registers it."

Read the rest here!

 

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AuthorJohn Proctor

Ok, now that the turkey is in the fridge, the relatives have been sent home, and the carols are on the iTunes playlists, let's talk Christmas. Specifically, let's talk what I can do for you. <reaches into bag of gifts>

For my friends of the essay, every day of the advent I'll be sharing from Essay Daily's wonderful Best American Essays Advent Calendar, in which one writer a day (including me!) writes about one volume of The Best American Essays. In fact, I guess the advent has already started as I'm already two days behind! I'll try to get caught up today, then one a day 'til Christmas.

And for my friends who enjoy the wonderfully seasonally-specific misery the holiday season invokes, I'm brewing up 12 more days of miserable Christmas songs. I'm lining them up now, but in the meantime you can warm up with last year's selections, which I've summed up handily under the just-invented tab Annotated Playlists.

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AuthorJohn Proctor

Here's another way my wife amazes me. I talk a great game, but she's all about action. We're now out of our baby-carrier days, and had a couple lying around - it turns out these little things that have outlasted their usefulness for us are in dire demand in Greece and other countries currently taking in thousands of homeless Syrian refugees, many of whom have been carrying their children in their arms for hundreds of miles and desperately need the simple relief a child carrier provides.

The charity, Carry the Future, was started by a mom in Glendale, California months ago. They have the infrastructure in place and have been distributing carriers for months to refugees. Every single one gets used, and they have a need for many more. This is a simple, fairly easy way to take something you may have sitting around as well, and put it in the hands (or on the shoulders) of people who need it more than we can know.

Here's the address below, and you can always donate to the charity here.


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AuthorJohn Proctor

I've read that I shouldn't get excited about this, but it's my first nomination so what the hell: I'M EXCITED!

I'm excited because my editor Greg Olear at The Weeklings is a really awesome guy, and I'm beaming that he thought the piece worthy of nomination.

I'm excited because the subject of the piece, baseball collector Zack Hample, gave me so much of his time and presence, especially considering he was in the middle of the most media-saturated summer he'll probably ever experience. It felt, for such a long piece, like it kind of wrote itself.

I'm excited because, yes, it is a long piece, and maybe the words "Pushcart-nominated" might convince you, if you haven't read it already, that it's worth a half hour or so of your time.

Mostly, I'm excited because this, unlike some of my writing, was genuinely fun to write, and many nice readers have told me it's a fun read.

Anyway, so read it already! Or read it again, if you already have!

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AuthorJohn Proctor

I'm hardly alone in being frustrated and saddened by my Facebook feed lately. I sat down this morning determined to write and share my thoughts, but then my friend Stanci shared a link to a piece by Luther M. Siler that crystallized them so completely (minus the divinity school) that I'd rather just share these words, which I beseech, no beg you to read in their entirety. (Here's the link too, if you prefer that.)

I am not a Christian.  That fact has probably been perfectly clear for a very long time; it doesn’t take a whole lot of reading around here to figure it out.
What may be less clear to non long-time visitors: Chances are I know way more about Christianity than you do.  Is that a guarantee?  No, not at all.  But most of you don’t have a Master’s degree in Biblical studies.  I do.  And I got it from one of the best divinity schools in the country.  So chances are I know more about Christianity and Western religion in general than you do.
I’ve been thinking about Jesus a lot in the last few days.  Maybe I should go full wanker here and call him Yeshua, or something, to rid him of some of the cruft that’s accumulated over the past 2000 years, but the point is I’ve spent a lot of time in the last few days thinking about Jesus.  And also, in those last few days, I’ve watched an awful lot of people who not only call themselves Christians but tend to openly boast about their Christianity— in and of itself, an unChristian act— completely pervert the meaning of their own religion.  To a degree that, frankly, should be physically painful along with spiritually.
All religions concern themselves with charity.  All religions concern themselves with the poor.  But I don’t think I’m going out on too much of a limb when I say that, of the three major Western religions at least (I’m hedging on Buddhism, mostly, which I know little about) there is no figure who is so concerned with the poor and dispossessed as is Jesus.  Treatment of the poor is very nearly the whole of Jesus’ ministry.  And his feelings on the matter, despite 2000 years and who knows how many translations (well, okay, two) of his original words, are perfectly clear:
31 “When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, then he will sit on the throne of his glory. 32 All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, 33 and he will put the sheep at his right hand and the goats at the left. 34 Then the king will say to those at his right hand, ‘Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; 35 for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, 36 I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.’ 37 Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry and gave you food, or thirsty and gave you something to drink? 38 And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and gave you clothing? 39 And when was it that we saw you sick or in prison and visited you?’ 40 And the king will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family,[g] you did it to me.’ 41 Then he will say to those at his left hand, ‘You that are accursed, depart from me into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; 42 for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, 43 I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, naked and you did not give me clothing, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ 44 Then they also will answer, ‘Lord, when was it that we saw you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not take care of you?’ 45 Then he will answer them, ‘Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ 46 And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.”
That’s Matthew 25, in case you don’t recognize it.  The translation is the NRSV, which I generally find to be the most accurate translation available; there was a time where if it was the Hebrew Bible I would have translated it myself but my Hebrew is terribly rusty and my Greek is virtually nonexistent so I have to trust the translators.
That said, though, this is really, really, crystal clear.  It is unambiguous and open.  It is not a matter for debate and not a matter of opinion, a word American Christians are really fond of tossing around.
Just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.
There are reasons to oppose bringing Syrian refugees to America.  None of them are good reasons.  Most of them are sickeningly racist.  And all of them are deeply, obviously, blatantly and clearly unChristian.  You cannot object to helping these people and call yourself a Christian.  Jesus himself would rebuke you.  He already has, in fact.  Reread verses 41-46 if you need to.  If you refuse to help the sick and the destitute and the needy, you are going to Hell.
There is literally no way to make that any clearer.  Christians are commanded to help those who are in need.  Not requested.  Not asked.  Not begged.  Commanded.  In plain and clear language.  By Jesus.  There’s no way to wriggle out of this, folks.  You either help these people– or, to do the absolute minimum, get the hell out of their way– or by the words of the man you consider the son of God you are going to Hell.
Let’s change the subject a bit, and talk about cowardice.  I have grown desperately tired of fear being the sole criterion by which every political decision is made in this country, particularly by the same people who are so hungry to convince you of their own toughness in every other set of circumstances.
I do not fear terrorism.  I do not fear “terrorists.”  I do not fear being blown up.  Neither should you.  Yes, even though it just happened in France.  Neither should you.  I am tired of living in a country where people openly advocate leaving children to die because they are terrified that one or two out of thousands of people who desperately need our help might be bad people.  Or, to be slightly more Biblical in my choice of words, people who openly advocate letting widows, and children, and orphans die horribly because of their own fear.   America is truly a nation of cowards if we allow this to happen, and the loudest voices for cowardice among us are also, somehow, the loudest voices for their own toughness.
We live in a country where grown men are terrified to go to the mall without their guns.
We live in a country where people living quite literally in the middle of nowhere are afraid that a tiny militia group on the other side of the world might notice them and come to blow them  up.
We live in a country where those same people are so proudly ignorant that not only are they unable to distinguish any one brown-skinned person from any other, they have the gall to be smug about it.
If we were to let some number of Syrian refugees come to live among us– for the purposes of this conversation I don’t even care about the number– we are certain to import some of them who are bad people.  Some of them might even be deserving of capital letters; Bad People.
I don’t care.  At all.
America has had one of what we like to call “terrorist attacks” in this country since September of 2001.  So two in this century, I suppose.  The Boston bombers killed three people and injured a couple hundred others.  In that time we have had thousands upon thousands of our own people killed by guns wielded by our own people, and we do nothing.  In fact, we insist that nothing be done.  A certain segment of our population is literally ready to go to war to protect their right to own weapons that are virtually guaranteed, if they are ever used at all, to hurt one of their friends or family members and not some half-imagined “attackers.”  And you can bet that had Dzhokhar and Tamerlan Tsarnaev been white, there would be an entire movement of people dedicated to proving that their attacks were either fabricated by the government or justified.
If the French attacks had happened in America, and had involved white people, an entire political party would be insisting we do nothing about it right now, and impugning the sanity and the patriotism of anyone who disagreed with them.  Guns in America alone kill several multiples more people every year than terrorist attacks in Western countries have killed this century.  
So forgive me if I do not find your fear convincing or important.  You are so much more likely to be killed by the gun you keep in the glove box of your car than by a “terrorist” that I literally cannot take you seriously.  If you live anywhere outside of the five or six largest cities in America and you genuinely fear terrorism you should seek mental help, and I say that as someone who actually sees a mental health counselor at the moment.  It is not a flippant statement.  It is roughly akin to fearing shark attacks while living in Nebraska.  If you do live in one of those five or six cities, your risk is slightly– very, very slightly, because the total number of US cities affected by terrorism this century is currently two– elevated, but you’re still being an idiot.  And you should stop.
I was made to memorize this poem, or at least the last five lines of it, in fourth grade.  I typed it from memory, although I will admit double-checking to make sure I got the words right:
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”
This is, of course, The New Colossus, the Emma Lazarus poem that is currently mounted on a plaque inside the Statue of Liberty.  It also has the advantage of rather exceptional clarity.
It is unChristian to keep these people out.
It is unAmerican to keep these people out.
It is inhuman to keep these people out.
And it is foolish in the extreme to allow fear to dictate our actions, especially– most especially– when that fear is not only rooted in our worst impulses, but is exactly what our actual enemies want us to do.
Enough.

Amen, Brothers and Sisters. I love you all.

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AuthorJohn Proctor

I can't even begin to wrap my head this enough write cohesively, so...

I am 42 years old, to fully unpack the seventh grade thing.

For a 42-year-old, I've grown entirely too comfortable this postseason wearing my cap upside down.

What strange timing - the 14-inning first game was played the night before I left for the NonfictioNOW Conference in Flagstaff, and the 12-inning final game was played on the day of my return to Brooklyn. The only game I watched in Brooklyn was at home while my mother-in-law, who was helping with the kids while I was away, was trying to get to sleep on our couch.

So much fun watching the middle games at the conference with my dear peeps Jericho Parms (Mets fan) and Steven Church (Royals fan), though Jericho made me feel incredibly guilty by being so composed while telling me of her boyfriend being sick all weekend and looking to the Mets for support.

I had to bring to bear all of my people skills on the plane ride back from Flagstaff, as it was packed with Mets fans who were pretty determined not to like me. (Except for one, who walked with me to the baggage claim as the Royals staged their comeback in the ninth. He commiserated freely until asking me what the "KC" on my cap stood for. I just looked at him until he had his Come to Jesus Moment and sped ahead to get away from me.)

Here's the view from my plane coming in to JFK. You can't tell in the photo, but that's Citi Field out there, top of the ninth.

Here's the view from my plane coming in to JFK. You can't tell in the photo, but that's Citi Field out there, top of the ninth.

...And here's the baggage claim. 10th inning of the World Series, and this is what is on every screen at JFK. FUCK FOOTBALL.

...And here's the baggage claim. 10th inning of the World Series, and this is what is on every screen at JFK. FUCK FOOTBALL.

 

My favorite photo of the night - Hosmer's game-tying slide home, lifted from Joe Bonomo's short-and-sweet blog post:

The New York Post, as if to up the ante on their "Amazin' Disgrace" headline and make sure no one doubts they are still the slimiest chunk of hometeam sports media afterbirth, now wants the Mets to trade Matt Harvey.

And finally, our college librarian (and Mets fan) Mary-Elizabeth, with the note she left on my office door this morning: "Congratulations! Well played. Just wait 'til next year. Signed, your blue & orange friend in the basement."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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AuthorJohn Proctor

...The flight attendant, seeing my Royals cap, asks me if I'm from Kansas City.

"Lawrence," I say, "but I live in Brooklyn."

"Ah, I live in Kansas City, and I'll be cheering for the Royals too."

"Well, I'm from Queens," the old man across the aisle grumbles, "and I'm fer the Mets!"

"I know," I say. "The plane's full of you guys."

"Hey, I have to sit next to him!" the guy next to me yells to the old man.

The long flight ended with the Mets on top 2-0 in the top of the ninth. I have to say, it was pretty fun to communally watch that lead disappear on our smartphones. I gave them all pitying looks, while beaming on the inside.

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AuthorJohn Proctor

I woke this morning at 4am PST, aka my regular morning wakeup time back east, laced up, and ran into the dark. I found a trail off the road my Econo Lodge is on, and ran entirely in blackness, guided only by the feel of the tall grass surrounding the trail. I can think of no better way to spend my first morning in a new town than losing my own form within it, feeling myself through the contours of its skin only by the tap-tap-tapping of my little feet.

And back to the hotel, er, motel, I finished some last-minute revisions for my 9:30 panel discussion with Jericho Parms, Amy Butcher, and Jennifer Bowen Hicks on fashioning an essay collection, took a shower, and exited my Econo Lodge room to this:

After standing there dumbfounded for a couple minutes, I grabbed two hard-boiled eggs, a yogurt, and a coffee from the lobby and headed over to the conference. Jericho and Amy were talking when I arrived so I joined the conversation. Amy had been delayed when her flight from Phoenix was cancelled, but she arrived as we were finishing prep work. Feeling pretty great about where we were, I went to an early morning panel on writing the monstrous that was just so good, especially two days before Halloween.

Our panel went wonderfully1 Great crowd, lots of interaction, and people told me throughout the day how much they got out of it, and how little they were bored. The day after that was a blur of panels, drinks, and Maggie Nelson's keynote, which finished the night for me in the best possible way. Great, great day. Two more to go!

Posted
AuthorJohn Proctor

I just arrived in beautiful Flagstaff after a longish-but-fineish flight from Brooklyn. Got a lot of work done on the flight to Phoenix - doing some final prep work for my panel tomorrow on constructing a book collection, graded some student work, yadda yadda - then had some great conversation on the layover with a retired American Airlines employee named Kelly (who seemed excited to read my work - Hi, Kelly!) and on the short flight to Flagstaff with a man named Chris who was on his way from Memphis to go elk hunting. Then I rode a taxi in with some wonderful people on their way to the conference, and I could just feel the three-day Code Red Nerd Alert rising.

I just got a run in, and geez, the altitude! Lungz was burninz. Now getting a shower and headed over to the convention center to do some last-minute panel planning and World Series watching with my friend Jericho Parms, whose recent first book deal almost excuses the fact that she'll be cheering for the Mets.

 

Posted
AuthorJohn Proctor

Just got my volume of The Best American Essays 2015 in the mail today, with the bonus of my name in the Notables section! My essay "The Question of Influence" from last fall's edition of The Normal School got me my virgin selection. I pulled the book out of its envelope, opened it to the Notables list, and showed my two daughters.

ME: Look in here. <pointing at my entry> What’s that say?
MY 6-YEAR-OLD: John Proctor.
ME: Who’s that?
6YO: It’s you! You’re in this book?
ME: Kind of. I’m a notable American essayist.
BOTH GIRLS: <look at each other, then both jump around and scream simultaneously>
6YO: You’re in a book!
3YO: I’m gonna hug your butt now. <hugs my butt>

 

Posted
AuthorJohn Proctor