Balls to the Walls Poetic Justice 2007

In 1993, Poetic Justice came out with Janet Jackson and Tupac. I was in 4th or 5th grade and I wanted to see this movie so, so badly because, well, it looked kind of sexy and dramatic. Somehow I managed to sneak into the movie and even though it was kind of sexy (teenage sex in a van), it was undeniably terrible: something to do with a delivery run debacle and Janet/Justice trying to compartmentalize the world through her poetry. So now we jump to January 2007 with a newspaper article on how poetry has helped catch a pedophile. A young school girl in NY wrote a poem for class about being molested, and her perceptive teacher took notice and informed the school/police. A few lines of the poem:

I said no and screamed for help.
But pain was all I felt.
A loving father is what he is supposed to be.
But instead he's a rapist
that just raped me.

(Oh dear lord, that's very sad.) Do we have another Plath on our hands? I hear the NYPD has really gotten into Flarf recently, so maybe they'll start pinning more Confessional poetry up in their lockers now.

By the way, the molester was apprehended and one of the girl's friends is quoted in The Post saying, "I don't think she was lying about it. He used to get that way with me, and I'd be like, 'Whoa.'"

Like Whoa, I totally smell a poetry workshop a brewin'.

**Note: Any ironic tone perceived in above post does not detract from the fact that I think this is actually a very cool story and the article makes it clear that this girl was afraid to talk for a long time about what happened to her and it was totally balls to the walls of her to write an effing poem and hand it in to her homeroom teacher. You go girl.

Who Goes to Queens?

Would You Follow These Instructions?

Instructions:
“Get off the subway and walk towards the bridge for 5 blocks”
“The buildings become warehouses as you go”
“Go into the only garage on the block before 45th Ave”
“Ask for a man named Harry”
“Your phone is in a zip-lock bag with your name on it” (am I getting out of Jail?)

So, would you follow these instructions?

At the end of Friday I left my phone in a cab. This is my punishment for spending the extra money on a cab when I still haven’t bought the 8 new Octopus chapbooks that are out. Curses. So, thankfully the cab driver got in touch with me the next morning but I was disillusioned to learn that I would have to trek to Queens, alone at night, to extract it, before my Saturday evening could really “begin.” The instructions, which I wrote down bleary eyed in the morning on an envelope, seem a little, um, shady (see above). I didn’t have much choice, though, so off I went. I met Harry and liberated my phone from the garage. Then I got very lost and had to have MH and KH come save me after MH’s prodding to “just walk over the bridge” was rejected by me in a meek, scared voice. They found me waiting inside a photobooth in a random Queens bar. Normally I’m not very keen on telling you the personal details of my life, but I think that the photobooth photo sequence is very representative of the arc of my everyday (I'm on the left):

Photo #1: Goofy wonder/curiosity. People can point at things and I then stare at those things.
(take a shower, look out my window for a bit, take the subway)
Photo #2: Mock surprise.
(arrive to work)
Photo #3: Self-mockery.
(routine survival strategy)
Photo #4: Moments of contemplation that misleading look like moments of being a space-cadet. Or sometimes just moments of being a space-cadet sans misleading any onlookers.
(write a poem or pretend to write a poem)

Anyways, MANY READINGS WENT ON THIS WEEKEND (but I only went to two):
1) Friday: The Berrigan and Berrigan reading at the Bowery was very fun and I snagged two free broadsides.
2) Sunday: Dustin Williamson and Kerri Sonnenberg read at Zinc. Jim Behrle always gives these very witty, complimentary intros for each reader. If you are a good but insecure, humble poet, you should read in Jim’s series and then you will walk around with your head held high for the rest of the evening, if not longer. Seems like Dustin’s poetry is getting better and better. I’d not heard of Kerri before but she was charming. Two things I also learned on Sunday: 1) the poet Gina Myers is dope and 2) I like mashed potatoes (this was discovered very late in the evening).

My next post will somehow incorporate “world news,” or something, promise.

What I Know About Lincoln vs. Zach Schomburg

Things I Did Not Learn While Reading “Abraham Lincoln’s Death Scene”:
-AL had no middle name
-for a short while during his childhood, he lived in a dugout on the side of a hill in Indiana
-he was a local wrestler and skilled with an axe
-his political career began at the tender age of 23
-he shared a bed with his “friend” Joshua Fry Speed for four years
- he had four sons with wife Mary Todd (this was after he got out of bed with Joshua) but only one lived to adulthood (sad)
-he ran as an underdog for the Republican party in 1860 and he did not campaign or give speeches
Ok, let’s skip to his death: He was planning to go see Our American Cousin with General Grant and when Grant canceled at the last minute, Lincoln expressed to Mary that he no longer wanted to go. Obviously, that would have been the smart move.
-his guard was drunk and left his theatre box unattended to nab a drink so You Know Who snuck in and shot Lincoln with a derringer in the back of the head and then jumped off the balcony onto the stage; the assassin breaking his shin in the process.
-Lincoln died at approximately 7am the following morning
-there were at least four conspirators in addition to Booth

So, I basically ordered Zach Schomburg’s “Abraham Lincoln’s Death Scene” no more than a minute or two after Jen Tynes of horse less press sent out the “new release” e-mail (yeah, I'm a dork). His chappy arrived a few days ago and low and behold, I have copy 17/50 (the design is lovely, by the way). This leads me to believe that there are some crazy poet Paypal clickers out there. You should go on Jeopardy and win lots of money. I’d be terrible at Jeopardy but I would have cleaned up if I had been on Where in the World is Carmen San Diego as a kid. Pass me my time machine, please.

Things I Thought About While Reading “Abraham Lincoln’s Death Scene”:
Ooh, a time machine is a good segue because Schomburg transports us to a strange and eerie 1865 on the eve of Lincoln’s assassination. Reading this collection of poetry is like experiencing this chain of events:
1) going to your old home for the first time in ten years
2) looking into the bedroom of your youth and sensing that the sizes of your desk, bed, and bureaus are very different from how you remembered and that the angles are askew in a way that feels unreal but must be true
3) leaving your bedroom and climbing up to the attic (even before you’ve had a chance to sit down at the kitchen and drink a glass of water after that long drive home)
4) turning on the attic light and then walking past old rocking chairs, a Malibu Barbie swimming pool, your brother’s beebee gun, a folded stack of lace table clothes before
5) finding an old wooden box and opening it
6) to discover your ViewMaster circa your childhood.

The poems are surreal, 3D movie stills and as you turn the page to the next one, it’s like clicking the ViewMaster and moving through an event that is both familiar and foreign. There is a progression, but what you see has been chosen for you in bizarrely packaged segments, which build on each other and also jump around. Like your older brother took a few stills out of the ViewMaster reel and switched the order so when you click through it, the sequence is slightly off-kilter- which makes what you would normally expect beautiful and unnerving. Your older brother has also spliced in weird images over the ones you had anticipated to see. Ok, enough with this analogy.
The narrator of ALDS recollects both tenderly on this evening as the second date with his now much older wife, M, and with stony observation towards the unusual events they witness together. It is an intricate balance I don’t see many people pulling off these days, particularly because each poem has a tight composition- there are no line breaks so the growing intimacy the speaker feels towards M rubs up against the detached observations he makes about the assassination scene(s).
I wanted to show you two poems I particularly like but since chapbooks are small, I’ll only show you one so that when you buy it, a higher percentage will be new:

A string of fish. A blood-spattered tuba. A golden egg.
A live nativity scene. An artist painting this. Rhubarb
pie. A floating bathtub. Booth’s nub for a hand, blood-
spattered. Lincoln’s discarded leg brace, aflame. A man
in a crow costume killing a women in a dove costume.
Her soul rising from the dove’s beak. Actual crows car-
rying the soul away.

We could have a discussion group about the theory of witness and testimony in history in relation to ALDS and we could talk about Walter Benjamin’s “Theses on the Philosophy of History” and Carolyn Forche’s “The Angel of History” but I won’t do that to you. But I am thinking about it.

How Do You Know It's Really Effing Cold? And also, Typo #9 Now Out

1) It's so cold: dog pee freezes as it trickles down the sides of buildings that pet owners let their dogs pee on. Seriously, I passed about 5 apartments/walls on my way to the subway this morning where there was dog pee frozen mid-trickle and then a little yellow ice-skating rink of piss on the pavement. GROSS! What did I ever do to drive the summer away? Or even the Fall. Come back, Fall, give me one more chance to show you how much I miss your colorful leaves. I'll change, you don't have to.

2) The image of Whitney is to counter-balance the really lame dog image I found. I googled "dog pee winter" and all of these weird photos of puppies sitting on laptops came up. What?

3. Issue #9 of Typo is now up and running. Check it out, I have a poem there. Also, at a glance:
I don't know who David Goldstein is, but he has a killer first line, "It was the season in which the paparazzi lie fallow in the field and insects beat against the low rice walls."
Chris Tonelli's poem begins, "In the strict new drama, half-bridges line the river." Makes you want to keep reading, right?
And, clipped from the center of one of Andrea Baker's poems, "so / I set out a bowl /for light to rest in" Beautiful. Go read what comes before and after this stanza. http://www.typomag.com/issue09/index.html <--I still haven't figur'd out how to put html links into my posts, but I'm working on it.

Hot Potato: I have Zach Schomburg's new chappy, Abraham Lincoln's Death Scene, so get ready for some words about that tomorrow.

What's Up With Fat Suits? II

Ok, just a few more. Now we have a Big Momma's House photo and a Mrs. Doubtfire photo. Mrs. Doubtfire is definitely creepy, but I don't think it's offensive. The fat suit is not being used to make a grotesque caricature of an obese person, it's being used to hide Daniel Hillard's identity (the father) so that he can still see his children. And in this case, he is in a frumpy, middle aged nanny disguise. I guess that the image of a middle aged nanny does get mocked a little in the process, so you can be offended if you want. Maybe it's a matter of degree but I think you need to pick your battles. And I'm not saying I'm picking Big Momma's House as a battle, because that would mean I had absolutely nothing else to care about. I just wanted to bring your attention to the curious rise in comedians wearing fat suits- and we have to wonder if it's a crutch and why the American public embraces it.

What's Up With Fat Suits?

Seriously, what's up with Eddie Murphy and fat suits? There were even more unsettling movie stills available of close ups of Eddie Murphy's face when he's in costume as a fat grandmother, but I opted to spare you. You're welcome.
His new movie is called Norbit, which is where the first still is from. I would rather see The Passion of Christ and Apocolypto back to back then see Norbit.

We also have Paltrow in Shallow Hal. At least she knows that was a mistake.
Now Heavy Weights (1995) was a great movie about fat campers. No fat suits!

Ok, Now For News We Don't Care About From The New York Post:
More Paris Hilton sex tapes are out. Apparently this girl did not pay her bill at a storage facility and they sold all of her stuff to a website parisexposed.com. I actually feel bad for her, the poor media whore.

Ok, Now For News WE DO SO VERY MUCH Care About From The NY Post:
The Senate Foreign Relations Committee dismissed Bush's plan to send 22,000 more troops to Iraq. I'm sure this is a "two steps forward, one step back' situation- but I'm still holding onto this as good news.

Poetry:
I'm going to the Berrigan brother duo reading at The Bowery Poetry Project this Friday, 8:30pm. I think a handful of my friends are coming already so the more the merrier. There is also a MiPOesia reading at Stain Bar in Brooklyn but I can't make it there in time, alas.

Superfan of Superfans and a Bad Word Update

Everyday when I go to "The Googles" there is a chunk of my screen that is taken up by "Photos from SI.com" (upper left corner). They are sports related, always one of the four images is of a cheerleader looking happy in that drugged up delusional sort of way- and I generally find the images mildly disturbing but not enough to bring anyone else's attention to it. Upon further investigation, I discovered that "SI" is Sports Illustrated and while the cheergirls may have caught my eye, it is the "College Superfan" photos that hold my attention. Please note how "superfan" is one word. When was the last time you were this excited about something? The next time you see me at a poetry reading I will be dressed like a Superfan.

Ok, Response to the Bad Words List of My Last Post Due To Comments I Received:

1. We have one assertion that I do not have the authority to tell
people what words they can/cannot use. I agree, obviously. Moving on then. The same person taunts any daring poet to use the word "reciprocity" successfully in a poem so if any daring poet thinks he/she is up to the task, send me the poem and I'll post it for the world to marvel at. There will be a prize- and although I cannot tell you what it will be, I'll just say, "It's OK to get your hopes up."


2. Apparently if you "weep" in a kiddie pool filled with "honey," it's
okay to write a poem about it. You really shouldn't read people's
diaries without asking, M, but at least you've freed me to use said
content in my poetry. Especially the entry about how I really and
truly believed I was Orpheus when standing in that babypool, weeping.

3. I still think that nocturne should not be used. Yes, there are some
great poems that have nocturne as the title, but I wish they didn't.
Frank O'Hara has a great, sad poem called "Nocturne." I would type it up for you right now but I momentarily can't find the book in my room- so I'll have to do it later. I'm pretty sure Neruda and Rilke etc all have great pieces titled "Nocturne," but I was talking about looking towards the future of poems.


Other Noteworthy Things
1. Today on my subway to work, I saw an ad that featured an image of a grinning middle-aged woman who had clearly reached salvation in the form of a luxury vacation with the caption, "Before my Bahamavention, people could take donkey rides to the bottom of my frown." This is just an ad that should not exist. Bahamavention?
2. Have you noticed that no one says "Sketchy" or "That's sketch" and more? Thank you, thank you, I've been quietly waiting for this day.

Anyways, There are many readings this weekend. Friday Sat, and Sunday.
But I will give the details later since I'm too tired to cut and paste
well right now.

Plurality & Bad Words

3 Proper Nouns That I Pluralize By Accident, Am Reprimanded For, But Continue To Use To The Chagrin Of Those Around Me:

1. Googles ("My Googles is working slowly today."
2. Barnes & Nobles
3. Rollingstones ("Sometimes I buy Rollingstones Magazine for a long train ride in addition to the book I'm actually supposed to be reading."

Maybe I should just never mention all three words again to avoid the problem all together. O, but how I do love The Googles.

***

Words That Should No Longer Be Used In Your Poems or In Any Contemporary Poem You Like

1. Weep
2. Nocturne
3. Moon (unless someone is "mooning" someone else, and then I would really like to see this poem if you think it is good)
4. Orpheus (please, I beg you, please do not use this in a poem)
5. Pomegranate (this should not be used for the same reason Orpheus should not be used)
6. Honey
7. Bird (this is a tricky one, because sometimes "bird" just feels right in a poem. So, maybe sometimes it is "ok" to use. but think really hard first about whether here isn't something more interesting you could use instead so that you won't join the ranks of 10,000 other 20something or 30something poets using the word bird)

This list will be growing, please feel free to add. Like, "grandmother" could probably go on this list. Does this list make me a mean person? No, especially if you read it as a reminder to myself. Poetry Self Help.

Two Unattractive Things About People

Example #1: Shannon Doherty = Asymmetry

Distain for asymmetry in facial construction seems to transcend cultural differences. At least we can all come together on something.

Example #2: Someone in Mid-Yawn

I don't even think supermodels look cute when they yawn. A cute yawner is definitely a keeper.

Updates Galore and Yayoi Kusama

I’m a little scattered right now so I’m going for the list format:
1.The N train RULES when it goes local because this means I don’t need to transfer. This ties into my #2 update because it let me get to and from KGB on a Sunday evening so easily.
2. It RULES to get to the KGB bar easily on a Sunday evening, particularly tonight, because I got to see my friend Joshua Cohen read from his new novel, Cadenza for the Schneidermann Violin Concerto. Read this book (Fugue State Press). Thank you N train (see update #1 for reference).
3. Another thank you to all the lovely people who came to Fanny Howe’s book launch party last night for Radical Love. It went smoothly with catered food and wine and a supportive crowd.
4. I love the work of Yayoi Kusama (born 1929). I’m sure you’ve heard of her before, but if you haven’t thought of her sculptures/exhibitions in a while, now is a good time. One of the intriguing things about creators of obsessive artwork is that these artists so visible wear their neuroses/disorders on their respective sleeves. What I do admire, and I think it’s ok to say that I admire this, is that she acknowledged her mental instabilities and instead of taking some sedative-like medication and silencing the source of her work or on the other end of the spectrum, physically harming herself in some serious way, she has for many years lived in mental institution in Japan and continues to produce quite startling art from a studio down the street from her hospital, which serves as a safe haven. Obviously I’m completely simplifying her experience, but It does leave you to question how much mental anguish/instability is worth innovative art/writing. The quote below by Kusama on a 1954 painting from Wikipedia:

"One day I was looking at the red flower patterns of the tablecloth on a table, and when I looked up I saw the same pattern covering the ceiling, the windows and the walls, and finally all over the room, my body and the universe. I felt as if I had begun to self-obliterate, to revolve in the infinity of endless time and the absoluteness of space, and be reduced to nothingness. As I realized it was actually happening and not just in my imagination, I was frightened. I knew I had to run away lest I should be deprived of my life by the spell of the red flowers. I ran desperately up the stairs. The steps below me began to fall apart and I fell down the stairs straining my ankle."

The unfortunate thing is that I consistently forget Kusama’s name whenever I do want to mention her work for whatever reason. Today, I had to effing google “Japanese female artist mental hospital” to find her name since I couldn’t recall it. Even though I was sitting on my couch alone, it was kind of embarrassing.

Howe Amazing Will the Book Launch Be?

This is a postcard my friend FJP sent me from Morocco. I'm impressed by the Moroccan postal service since this card actually reached me within 10 days of it being sent. Nice mule, but does it run on diesel or regular?

The Foust and Nakayasu reading was great- they are both charming people as well as talented poets. There was a baby that kept making boat motor or "raspberry" noises throughout the reading and Nakayasu read many of her insect (ant) related poems (both of these would go on the pro side of the Pro and Cons List for the evening if I was weird enough to make one). My brother came (see photo from last post) after changing out of his interview clothing. He almost drove back to NC last night just to avoid being dragged to a poetry event but he was a trooper and we passed notes back and forth like fifth graders.

Tonight is Fanny Howe's book launch. Her collected novels, Radical Love, just released with Nightboat Books (www.nightboat.org). Last year's party was lovely and any person in nyc or who has access to a car, train, or teleporter should come to the Poets House this evening (Saturday) between 6-8pm to celebrate with us. I spent hours and hours creating the jacket for the galley copies and it makes me happy that the actual book was designed so similarly (not that I influenced the designer, it just worked out like that). I'm also excited to take this book to AWP at the end of February. Speaking of said conference, the rooming situation has been resolved- thank you M & Z of Octopus.

Time to tidy the apartment.

Two Disparate Photos

Well, one photo is of the poet Kamua Brathwaite and one is of my brother, Adam, in a Halloween costume. Of these two, can you guess who will be crashing on my futon tonight? That's right, Kamua has an interview for an internship at a Wall Street company tomorrow and needs a place to stay. Serious career change. Oh snap, fooled you. Adam has the interview and is driving all the way up from NC to stay here tonight and then he'll put on a suit in the morning and woo Wall Street. I hope that he gets this position for three serious reasons: 1) he deserves it, 2) I haven't lived in the same place as my brother since I was 18 and it would be fun if he spent the summer here, and 3) this is definitely the career path he needs to follow in order to support me. When I auction off my poetry on e-bay for $1,000 a pop, someone needs to throw down the cash and buy 'em.

Brathwaite read last night at the Poetry Project. I just closed my eyes and listened to him read. It was that good. Mark McMorris is also a fantastic reader-outlouder, hopefully I'll hear him read again sometime soon as well. Graham Foust is reading tomorrow (Friday) at The Fall Cafe. I basically have a previous committment at the same time but my game plan is to jump on the train as soon as the first comes to close and make it to the tail ending of the Foust and Nakayasu reading. Maybe tomorrow the subway gods will be on my side. Details below:

Graham Foust & Sawako Nakayasu
Friday, January 19th, 7 :30 PM
The Fall Café
307 Smith Street
between Union & President
Carroll Garden, Brooklyn
F or G to Carroll Street

The Anger Scale

I'm not going to review Katie Degentesh's The Anger Scale (Combo Books) or anything because such reviews by Justin Marks and Shanna Compton do this book
justice:

http://kitchenpressreviews.blogspot.com/2007/01/anger-scale-by-katie-degentesh-combo.html

http://www.shannacompton.com/2006/12/random-reading_19.html

Their reviews, amongst others, explain how, why, and what this collection strives to accomplish. I'm just going to pick and choose lines that I do like and maybe it will be enough for you to go out and buy a copy and read more. Besides, you can already get used copies on Amazon for 3 buck. 3 bucks, that's less than the bag of Soy Crisps that I eat every day and which will eventually give me cancer due to dehydrogenated cane juice and said Crisps' addictive qualities. Soy Crisps are the ultimate deception because the people who eat Hohos, for example, either a) probably don't give a crap about all the junk it's made from, or think b) ooh, today I'm going to "splurge" and re-live my childhood back when I didn't give a crap about the junk Hohos were made from. SOY CRISPS, on the other hand, claim to be healthy and people eat them thinking they are making a 'smart' choice. Yet, there is some seriously bad stuff in them. Well, it's too late for me on this front so I'll feed you the good Degentesh lines, which contain no such dehydrogenated products (to my knowledge):


Then my son gave a pint of gin for a squaw
and lived with her as such until his death

....

Getting to the sea is a challenge
which sometimes leaves me craving vanilla ice
In love, you feel the most alive when grocery shopping

...

In the end it is pretty damn reprehensible
to be a younger, more vigorous man than myself.

I want space and immortality
and the pull of a certain "southernness"

...

I am a ghost of a maniac boy who doesn't like work.
I am an animal with a halo.

...

Heart breakdowns with dilated pupils
will infringe upon me today
somewhat prettily and no doubt sweetly

...

Sometimes I find that my hands have become aware of each other,
or that they have become so weak that singing has become impossible.

...End of Quotes

Thank you, Jim Behrle, for lending me this book. Or accidentally leaving
it on my couch- either way it works for me. Katie's lines do not necessarily contain visual or oral beauty, but they contain some very captivating elements, which make your mouth happy to say the lines aloud.

Where Is My Winnie Cooper? and also a Reading at KGB (not by Winnie Cooper)

I've slowly (and lovingly) been making my way through all of the TV shows on DVD that center around late 20 somethings masquerading around as high school students. 21 Jump Street, the OC (obviously), Freaks & Geeks, etc. My one true TV love when I was younger was The Wonder Years. For a long time this was not available on DVD and my heart broke a little more each day. There was a Wonder Years Highlights DVD that my dad gave me for my birthday one year but it was very disappointing: it ran sort of like a bad collage projected on Power Point by a creepy fan. I guess some might call it a montage. Anyways, it's still not available on Netflix (wtf?), but apparently I can buy all 7 seasons, originally priced at $189.99 for a mere 18.99 on tvaddicts.tv. Am I getting scammed? If I do buy it, I'm looking for one or two loyal friends to watch at least a few of the seasons with me. Any takers?

Winnie Cooper was hot stuff. Apparently she is also hot in Stuff Magazine. I'm 1/2 happy for her that she isn't one of those child stars who hit puberty and then had to retire because they looked, for lack of a more fitting adjective, busted. I am also 1/2 scared that such a sweet, big-eyed girl is now so intimidatingly sexed up.


I can't come up with a good "bridge" here so I'm going to throw in a non sequitur, but an important one:
My friend Joshua Aaron Cohen (same last name and even the same monogram on a towel if we were that fancy to have one, but no relation), has a reading this Sunday at KGB (nyc). We should all go because he is genius in a can. Or rather, genius in a man and you'll be missing out if you don't go:

Reading from, Cadenza for the Schneidermann Violin Concerto

at KGB, this Sunday, Jan 21st at 7pm

85 East 4th St
NYC

BOOKS

The Quorum
www.twistedspoon.com/quorum

Cadenza for the Schneidermann Violin Concerto
www.fuguestatepress.com/cadenza.html

Flock

My friend, AG, sent me this image of a Walton Ford watercolor. How crazy is this watercolor? Nuts. If I was a naturalist poet, I might want this on the cover of my book. For the time being, I just want this on my wall at home. I guess I can go to the Brooklyn Museum and pretend that their wall with this image hanging on it is in my bedroom.

So I'm investigating AWP travel/rooming expenses. I really want to go this year for Nightboat Books. I'll go. It's logistics that's clogging my braincog right now but I'll work out the details. If anyone needs a room, I think I'm going to be getting a hotel room (twin beds and maybe some cots)with Matt H. and his lovely wife KH, but the more the merrier/cheaper (we need at least one more poet/body to share the expense).

There is a Charles Bernstein reading tonight, 7pm at Cue. I think I may miss it, I'm tired, so very tired today. But on my subway ride home I'll be cheering for him, "Give me an L, give me an A, give me an N, give me a G...!"

Grapefruit Juice

My go-to bodega has started to close earlier than the usual 2am. It's probably for the better in terms of "Maybe I don't really need to open a new 40oz at 2am..." realization- but not so good when all I really want is cereal or soup and the cupboard is bare. And buying food for the future doesn't really work for me since I'll just eat it if I know it's there. I recently read an article about adults with down syndrome living on their own and how there are schools in which every class is oriented towards teaching them the day to day basics. One mother was quoted as explaining how proud she was of her daughter and then continued on to say, and I am paraphrasing here but not too badly, "..but sometimes I worry because last week Jodie bought 22 dollars of ice-cream from the grocery store and then ate it all in one sitting with her boyfriend." It's great that Jodie has a boyfriend, but I worry that my eating habits mirror those of down syndrome adults living on their own.

The one habit that rubbed off on me from my ex is buying the New York Post on my way to the subway, even when I have other reading material in my bag. So far it's all been down hill in terms of headlines since Saddam was snuffed. I believe the photo was someone tightening the cord around his neck (horrid), with the bold headline, "NICE KNOT." Now my mornings are anticlimactic because nothing can top that. This morning my mission is to:
1) Finish a poem
2) Read "What Animal" by Oni Buchanan and determine if I still like it enough to recommend to friends.
3) A. is still sleeping but I'm hoping that if I give her money, she will do the walking to the video store and rent us some more Big Love episodes.

Before I used spell check, I honestly thought that "cupboard" was spelled "cubbard." Damn you, Mother Hubbard, and the residual misguided spelling.

Note to Self: Do Not Buy A Pound of Olives

J writes:
maybe half a pound is okay. because then we are only eating 1/4 pound each. and of course, when A comes home at midnight with a pound of olives and I have been chilling Vodka...uhh.

tonight we are both staying in and hybernating from parties. A has made a robot, or should I say "robot" from her white empty boxes of Thai food. it's looking at me from our Ikea coffee table, and it has chopstick antenae.

I would also like to take this moment and say that I will never have a flashback to a makeout party since I never went to one. although I did play spin-the-flashlight at jew camp when I was 11. does that count? I'm only thinking about this because scenes from a makeout party are being flashed in the episode of Scrubs we're watching. Maybe this isn't a reference I should be making.

back to the olives.