One word. Barrelhouse. And, no, I don't mean that intriguing little liquor store in DC, you know, the one with the front that looks like three or four enormous barrels. Rather I mean the newish literary journal founded by Aaron, Dave, Joe, and Mike, self-proclaimed purveyors of pop flotsam and cultural jetsam, in addition to the usual mix of great fiction and poetry.
This year I finally became acquainted with the magazine, and after picking up Issue Three at AWP, I realize that I made my move just in time: this latest one is about Love. Yes, Love. I seem to have skipped all of those awkward, confusing steps; you know, the steps between that moment when you first lock eyes and the moment when all that mumbo jumbo, the death do us part stuff, that kind of silliness, or whatever, you know, whatever happens at the end, the moment that all of that suddenly becomes very not-silly at all. Not that I don't want to read about those steps, but that I'm fairly happy to have blindly stumbled into the exciting part. You know, kind of like returning from the bathroom during, well, during any part of the movie 300 (so maybe it wasn't that exciting after all). Anyhow, I clearly have some catching up to do w/r/t this journal.
But, so, and, well here's what the editors have to say about this issue: "It's kind of like our third date. The first date, we were chaste and sweet and overtly cool, dressed to impress. The second date, we tried to mix it up a bit, let you know we had a wild side. This time, baby, we want some commitment. In other words, you best be puttin' out."
So put out I did. And to be honest, I learned. I learned a darker side of Love, the "love set to not-as-cool-music-as-we'd-like" kind of love. I learned about Love from stories titled "Dot Dot Dot" and "Resin" and "Recommended If You Dig" and "Billets Doux" and "Carseat." From an interview, I learned about the kind of primitive, spiritual Love that George Saunders' characters miraculously seem to feel as they stumble around in a modern, loveless world. And, gasp, I learned about Love from a poem titled "House Over the World." Hopefully, Wade will explain it to me, even though I already know that I really liked reading it for some reason.
I wish I had more time to talk about all of the stories, but frankly, I'm getting tired, and won't be able to fit everything into this post. So I'll just talk about Greg, the husband in "Dot Dot Dot," who must simultaneously deal with an infestation of little black bugs in his house as well as his wife's sudden withdrawal from him and his affection. Greg says, "Marlin started using my real name months ago. No explanation, no apologies. But I kept on. I still use our nicknames, arrested in their evolutionary development at 'Binger,' in the hope that she'll eventually come back into the cutesy fold." And I'll just talk about Westly, the sleep-deprived father from "Carseat," who, because of his rude tailgating, incurs the wrath of another driver during a late-night lap around the neighborhood with his baby daughter. The man follows him to his house and confronts him, and after the driver and he scuffle in the yard, Westly sits on the porch of his house, which shelters his sleeping wife, and thinks; he sits on the porch with his daughter, who rests in the carseat, and says, "I kept thinking how it never seemed real, as if I had conjured him up. How standing on the slanted lawn, looking back at all of this, I felt caught. Because if I didn't have this, where would I be?"
"Carseat" has stuck with me since I read it a few weeks ago; it has surprised me with how many times it suddenly appears in my thoughts, and I can see why the editors chose to publish it. I feel I can't do it justice with a few sentences. Nor can I explain every wonderful piece in this issue. I'm sorry. I just can't. So here's where I say you'll have to see for yourself.
Rumor has it that the next issue is going to press very soon. And although I'm not sure what exactly the editors will have ready for us, be it Death or Birth or some other general kind of issue, which might put an end to this extended date metaphor, who knows, I know I want some of it, whatever it is, because it will be fantastic. So keep up the good work, Barrelhouse.
That is all.
Good night.
