I didn't know where Dan Korgan was from. Then he told me he lives in Portland Oregon and that his work has appeared in Inkpot, Insolent Rudder, Gator Springs Gazette, EdificeWrecked, Right Hand Pointing, and the Muse Apprentice Guild. He doesn't live in Chicago. You can read his story "Dandelion Hill", at Thieves Jargon.

Everyday Yeah: Dear Dan, we do not know anything about each other. I think that is okay. Some people are afraid of this, but I don't mind. There was a time in my life when I was afraid to climb trees (I still am). I know this old lady named Gilda. She gives me cookies and little packs of gum. I just stole a half empty bottle of juice from the fridge at work. I threw away a brown paper bag that said, "Don't eat." So with all that said Dan Korgan, who are you?

Dan Korgan: Hey Mark, I think more people should steal. As for talking brown bags, I don't think I would have thrown it away. I might have taken that little runt of paper and given it a good bite in the bottom. As for me? I'm not sure who I am. Perhaps this would sum me up: Today I was walking back to school and I spotted a sparrow in the middle of the road. The brown bird lay flat on its back, twiggy legs sticking straight up toward the sun. So I went to take a closer look. I bent down to find out what color eyes this animal had. Then for some reason unknown to me the bird chirped a couple of times and asked why I was staring at him. So I decided to lie down next to him, I put my feet up until my stomach muscles hurt. You should have seen us, Man. It was great! We stayed there in the middle of the road for a while watching the cars drive around us. Well Mark, I not sure if that helps? Probably more than anything, I'm a poor speller.

A lot of people are unsure of where exactly the line between fiction and nonfiction is drawn. If you feel comfortable in that pool of murky water then answer the following to the best of your abilities, what are the last three things you stole?

I guess I'm not very good at creating villains:
1) A $14.00 bunch of asparagus (10 spears).
2) A $23/pound cake of smoked Oregon Blue Cheese.
3) Then I kicked a bird's ass over a slice of bread.

Dan, what do you for work? Who's your best friend in the workplace? What about you biggest enemy? When did you find Jesus? Well, that was kind of a lame question. Let's talk about your story a bit. Where were you in your life when you wrote dandelion hill?

That's an interesting question. I wrote the first draft about ten years ago in a writing class. Since then I have rewritten it about fifteen times and now I have at least ten drafts of that story I like equally. Well, mainly the story comes from a child's POV who observes and feels the stress of his family as they try to carve out a living. I know this sounds corny, but I guess it's a coming of age story where a boy tries to sift through his family's mechanical perceptions of the word to find and experience a more visceral one. I guess I remember feeling that way as a kid.
As for earning a living, now, I work with autistic kids.

I used to work with an autistic adult. I commend you. It's tough work. I couldn't take more than a year of it. The person I worked with was pretty violent though.
After you mentioned the writing class I'm curious the path you've taken as a writer, can you give us a quick diagram of all the places you've been. Either classes, moods, particularly good writing spots, etc...

I must say, it feels nice to be treated so officially as a writer. I've never been interviewed before, maybe this process will help me put the pen to the paper another hour a day or so. My most memorable experience with writing related to a physical location occurred in a Chicago bookstore during the X-mas shopping season. The pack of us ditched into a Barnes because it was so windy and cold, while my friends scattered in different directions I stayed in the lobby and picked up a random book - which happened to be an autobiography by Jimmy Carter - from the SALE table, opened a page and scribbled a very short story into my pocket spiral note book. It took me twenty minutes or so to finish it with only one rewrite. I'm sure it's an OK story. It was published, anyway. I think every place is a good writing spot: there cannot be any place that is not a perfect writing spot. Most of my characters are borne through the horror of combining experiences. When I was 18 my parent's owned a discotheque. I guess that helps a little.

That's a nice story about the Jimmy Carter inspired story. I would like hear more stories like that. Were your parents swingers of the disco era or something?

I have pictures of my dad dressed in gangster attire and my mother with beehive hair, a smart, sassy smile and dressed in skin-tight-leopard-print-stretch-pants and stiletto high heels. I wouldn't say they were swingers, but rather savvy entrepreneurs. If you don't mind me bragging just a little, here, my Mom was the first woman Certified Executive Chef west of the Rockies and my Dad's other name is Ken Chase, he produced and engineered the song Louie Louie by the Kingsmen. They're pretty cool people.

Hey Dan, this is the last question. It's not a question. It's a statement. I want you to answer it anyway you want. Be weird. Don't be weird. Those are two options. There are other options. You can explore those too. Thank you. I am out of the office all day.

I'll end with a quote from one of the kids I work with, J.

Carl swung the van into the very small parking lot to find one open space; we had a difficult time navigating between two other vans. Carl said, "Crap. It's too tight; they didn't leave us enough gosh-darn room. Shit. I don't think we'll make it. We're not going to make it." All this time, we were backing up and jerking forward trying to squeeze in.
"This parking lot is broken," said J.
"That's right, J," said Carl looking into the rear view mirror. "The parking lot is broken".
Thanks, Mark. This was fun. Take care.