SELECTED ONLINE CREATIVE NONFICTION PUBLICATIONS

here are links to (and pull-quotes from) a few different stories that you can find online ...

*Strangers on the Midnight Train: "Thanks to my arousal, I felt like I was on some kind of natural acid trip in an alien city full of Futurama creatures that looked both familiar and wildly exotic. I made eye contact with everyone around me, desperately hoping to find some kind of connection that would slack my unappeased lust." (Nidus)

*Hair Apparent: "I told myself that coloring my gray streaks would somehow be a self-betrayal ..." (Salon)

*Kissing the Cab Driver: "I had a hard time talking to anyone--I was too busy conducting an interior dialogue. I ordered a Wild Turkey and Diet Coke to try and shut myself up ..." (Mr. Beller's Neighborhood)

*Oh Come On, All Ye Faithful: "For years, I thought about the big questions in my life during the mass. In high school, those included: 'Will this stupid priest ever stop talking? Or, more importantly, will I ever grow some breasts?'" (Killing the Buddha)

*Foreign Bodies: "A very quiet little voice in my head said: 'You’re being ridiculous! You’ll be fine. You don’t have it.' But it was no match for the wild chorus still screaming: 'Gonna die! Gonna die! Gonna die!'" (Mr. Beller's Neighborhood)

*Why I Love John Hughes: "To this day, when I hear his name, I get a rush in my stomach that's an awful lot like the feeling I'd get in high school when I spotted my crush standing in the parking lot after classes let out. He was the first filmmaker who connected with me on a personal level, with an insight into my everyday thoughts, worries and experiences: He knew what it was like to be an adolescent." (Salon)

*Smalls is Dead: "Crowded on a wooden floor space at the back of the room, the musicians played underneath a large sepia-toned photo of a young black man, outfitted in culottes, argyle socks pulled up to his knees, a jacket and tie, with his arms resting on his folded legs. Like a statue of Jesus in a church, he seemed to be guarding and godding the place. As I later learned, it was a shot of Louis Armstrong." (Mr. Beller's Neighborhood)

The Meal-Giver (from Glamour)

My Dad, The Meat-and-Potatoes Guy
By Maura Kelly
(this story appeared in the July 2005 issue of Glamour)

When my mother died of cancer in 1982, less than three weeks after my eighth birthday, the fun-loving father I’d known disappeared too, replaced by a new and hopelessly moody man. I fought him constantly—-maybe believing that if I just pushed hard enough, he’d snap out of it and my sweet old dad, the one who played soccer in the yard with me and told funny stories about growing up in Ireland, would return. A faulty theory, as it turned out, and one that turned our dinner table into an emotional war zone. From the age of nine, I took issue with everything he served me and my sister, knowing how much seeing us eat meant to him. “Feeding you makes me feel like I’m doing my job,” he liked to say. Unable to appreciate how much my mom’s death had devastated both of us, I wanted to show him I thought he wasn’t doing his job well at all. As a result, he began to avoid me, and I him; we’d sometimes go days or weeks at a stretch without saying a word.

Truth is, my dad was trying desperately to keep our little family together. A construction worker who laid asphalt for a living, he spent nothing on himself, instead choosing to save for our college funds. And although relatives suggested he ship us off to a no-frills boarding school run by nuns--they assumed there was no way such an old-fashioned and over-burdened man could raise two little girls--he never even considered the suggestion.

I was oblivious to his sacrifices. Feeling cheated of a loving mother, I decided to punish him (and myself) by not eating. What better way to reject his parenting? By the time I turned 13, my hunger strike had me down to 68 pounds. When my pediatrician said I might die if I didn't get serious help, my father didn’t hesitate to place me in a top eating disorder clinic, paying nearly $30, 000 out of his own pocket. Four months later, I was released—-at a normal weight and sane enough to give up on a slow death by starvation, but still plenty angry at my dad. By then, I was blaming him for my anorexia. Soon enough, I announced I was becoming a vegetarian. My father was furious; for him, a meal wasn’t complete without meat—-preferably the bloody kind. “Will you ever be normal?” he asked. I just shrugged, inwardly pleased to have found a more sustainable form of protest.

Through the years, our arguments kept up, as did my dad’s requests that I reconsider my diet. “I’ll never change, Dad,” I’d say through gritted teeth. But in my late twenties (after many hours on the shrink’s couch), I suddenly understood for the first time that a lot of the fury I aimed at my dad was misdirected: the person I was most angry with was my mother, for dying, no matter how irrational that was. I also realized that my dad did actually love me; as much as I tried to push him away, he’d always stuck by me.

With that realization, things slowly improved between us. When we talked, I started to actually listen, instead of just waiting to hear something that would offend or irritate me; and strangely enough, he seemed to do the same. But last year, at age 30, I wanted to do something to mark the change—-to show my father how much I loved and appreciated him. Just before Thanksgiving, my dad and I went out for dinner. Almost gleefully, but nervously, too, I ordered a burger: It would be the first time I’d eaten meat in 17 years. As the waitress walked away, my dad looked stunned, but in his usual tough-guy manner, said nothing. Still, he watched me eat that burger bite by bite with utter fascination, like I was unwrapping a large present meant for him. Except this was a gift I was giving by receiving it: I was showing my dad I was ready to accept the fatherly nurturing I’d spent most of a lifetime rebuffing. When I saw the tears in his eyes, I knew it was exactly what he’d wanted.

Believer Interview with Mark Mothersbaugh

Here's my conversation with Mark Mothersbaugh, composer of music for the films of Wes Anderson and many others, and founder of DEVO. "We had a different take on things than other people into music at the time," he says, talking about DEVO's early days. "And the first people who we unleashed our wonderful talents on were either confused by what we were doing--because it was so different from what was happening in the mainstream music scene at the time--or actually scared, because they didn’t understand us."