In Other News, I Can Help You Write That 'I'm Sorry I Drove You To Drink Letter.' In Fact, Let's Do That Right Now.

Just look at what you made me do!

First of all, it's important to address me correctly so I know who the letter is coming from. For example, you might include one of the following as your salutation: 'dear ex-girlfriend' or 'dear ex-girlfriend' or 'dear ex-girlfriend.' You get the drift. Also appropriate would be: 'dear stalking victim' or 'dear stalking victim.' Yes, I am talking to both of you. Just because the first time happened 13 years ago doesn't mean it doesn't count. There is no statute of limitations on driving a person to drink.


In other news, my cat, Stanley, the cat behind the cat that is 'my cat, Gerard Butler,' has spent most of his 15 minutes of IMDB fame (now over) doing exactly what he usually does. Sleeping. Meowing in an annoying fashion. Eating. Chasing chubby co-pet Morgen around the living room. Finding himself confined to the kitchen and back hallway because his chasing of chubby co-pet Morgen is annoying to chubby co-pet Morgen and to others. Meowing in an annoying fashion. Also, he is not an enchanted prince. I have already checked. Nor, do I presume, does he have assets hidden somewhere in a Swiss bank account. That would be really cool if he did though.

In other news than that, an important commission recently discovered that 'job skills' is only one (alphabetical) letter away from 'job kills.'

Just a few more possibly appropriate salutations: 'dear co-worker' or 'dear employee.'

Or, 'dear daughter.' I'd be willing to write this letter myself and just let the guilty parties get away with giving me their John Hancocks. Yeah, we get along fine now. In fact, we get along really well now. But like I said. There is no statute of limitations about driving people to drink!

I feel like I must be leaving someone out. Although I (blah blah) now enjoy alcohol responsibily in small, manageable quantities, I did do a fair amount of drinking back in the day. And I am pretty sure it was always someone else's fault.

In other news, my cat, Stanley, the cat behind the cat that is 'my cat, Gerard Butler' is sleeping right now. I'm just going to go doublecheck and make sure he doesn't have a wallet somewhere that he's hiding from me. Being the core cast member of Disability in the City is really killing me financially. In my case, that's like killing something that was already dead.

In other news, if my cat could write, he'd be writing me that letter right now. I think you should probably take the next few minutes to do a little soul-searching.

In Case There Is Any Confusion Over My Mental Health Status, I Am Clearly Insane. However, I Recently Remembered That My Cat's Real Name Is 'Stanley'

my fake cat, the fake 'Gerard Butler'

Here is a funny thread on an IMDB messageboard about my blog. My cat, Gerard Butler, has now achieved the kind of notoriety and infamy that I previously thought was only available to my friend, Jack Morgan,or other people who post pictures of women in lingerie on their poetry blogs. If my cat, Gerard Butler, looked good in lingerie, I am quite sure Jack would have featured sexy photos of my sexy cat, Gerard Butler on his blog long before now. But. There is something I have to come clean about.

That is not even a real picture of my cat who looks exactly like the cat in the photo. All the 'real' pictures of my cat, Gerard Butler, are on the harddrive of my ex-boyfriend's computer. By 'ex-boyfriend' I of course mean 'my cat, Gerard Butler's, deadbeat dad.' So he has the pictures. I do not have a camera. He remains uncooperative. You figure it out. If my cat were a cat burgler instead of just a cat, we might have a solution. But he is not.

Also, his 'real' name is Stanley Kowalski or just 'Stanley' for short. Up till now, Stanley has preferred to lead his life outside of the limelight that accompanies being the cat my cat, Gerard Butler. But since the hullabaloo on IMDB, I feel that he might like me to share a few fun facts about the cat behind the cat that is my cat, Gerard Butler.

First of all, like his namesake in the Tennessee Williams play 'A Streetcar Named Desire,' my cat is abusive towards the women he loves. My cat, Stanley, is a notorious chauvenist. Believe me, you would not want to be senior pet, Morgen, a rotund calico who really just wants to be left in peace. Stanley is all over her and in her face whenever we allow him in the living room. He just wants to mount her, of course. If she would just let him do it once, maybe he would leave her alone. But no. Constant drama.

Another funny thing about my cat Stanley, the cat behind the cat who is my cat, Gerard Butler, is that he is shy about expressing his true self in front of people or animals that are not me. For example, he refuses to play in the living room in front of senior pet, Morgen, but will tear my room apart trying to catch a feather strung from a stick when it's just the two of us.

Also, Stanley is controlling about his cuddling. Always when he wants to!

So that is just a little bit about the cat that is the cat behind my cat, Gerard Butler. If only the real human Gerard Butler could find out about the hullabaloo then he could play 'Beowulf' and 'Selma' with us. With the stipulation that I get to be Beowulf, of course. And maybe, just maybe, the real human Gerard Butler will be able to answer the question burning its fiery imprint on my mind ever since watching the movie 'Beowulf and Grendel.' Who the f*ck is Selma? As if I don't already know. She is a sensual witch, of course.

High Ranking Commission Rules My Cat Gerard Butler's Deadbeat Dad Still 'Mockable' Despite Passage of Time And Chief Mocker's Emotional Healing

After a break in my important commission work, I contemplate my role as chief mocker

But I really can't list all the reasons he's mockable here. I have to start thinking about saving my soul. Rest assured the mocking will continue to happen, but it will happen during private mocking sessions with select individuals.

My cat, Gerard Butler, however, would like you to know that my cat Gerard Butler's deadbeat dad's other cat--with whom my cat Gerard Butler shared a home for two years--is a total Prima Donna.

Thank you.

Drama Can Also Occur in a Pharmacy. Believe Me, I Know. I Stood In Line In One All Day

my trusty service animal needed to restock

I finally know how my immigrant forefathers from Romania must have felt as they were herded through those awful winding barriers to have their eyes checked for glaucoma. I waited in line for so long today at Kaiser that I had to take a break just to go and flirt with the guys at the coffee stand near the windows at the end of the hall. Usually I actually buy something. I am a familiar face to them, however, because I am disabled now and always at Kaiser with my best friends Miranda, Samantha, and Charlotte. Usually when I swing by they pull out a little salt lick for Herman, my service animal.

Indeed, by the time Herman and I made it back to the pharmacy I could see my name in red lights on the marquee signalling to all the world that my drugs were ready to be softly nestled in Herman's little blue service pouch. I patiently rejoined the endless queue. Then the funniest thing happened. A discrepancy of sorts, you might even want to say.

The service clerk dutifully pulled out my brand new bottle of my brand new prescription pills. They were tangerine-hued and oblong. Oh yeah, I told Herman nostalgically. I used to take these in college and they made me take naps when I was supposed to be studying. Herman agreed with me that those are the best kinds of prescriptions. Did I say 'prescription?' I meant 'excuses!'

The service clerk and I looked at the unusually large pills. Take 1 and 1/2 tabs before bedtime, the directions stated. The service clerk gave me a 'pill cutter' which has a razor blade in it. I was flattered that she trusted me, but Herman looked a little worried.

But then I noticed the discrepancy. A big yellow caution sticker slapped across the amber bottle. Big words. DO NOT CHEW OR CRUSH. SWALLOW WHOLE.

Do not chew or crush? Cut pills in half? Swallow whole? I mulled over my options and decided to consult with the pharmacist, something I almost never do since the time one of the 'pharmacists' gesticulated loudly in broken English that my medicine was for 'crazy people.'

Other people looked at me. I could see the craziness in their eyes but didn't have the same sort of proof about them that they had about me.

This pharmacist was different and solved the problem after only a few growls from Herman, my service animal. For the record, she too believed that there was a discrepancy between the directions on the bottle and the scary warning label and warning pamphlet that always comes with my medicine highlighting potentially lethal side effects to show me exactly how I am slowly killing myself. Of course this meant that I had to wait in line again and I really couldn't go over to the coffee stand again. That would be shameless and although I am completely shameless, I like to act like I'm not. So no coffee stand this time around. Herman was peevish, however, because he was jonesing for his salt lick.

Still it is so weird to me that Kaiser would not have their shit together enough to prevent such a discrepancy from occurring. They are so good at organizing those winding ropes to keep people standing in long, coiling lines. Well, multi-tasking gets the better of the best of us, I suppose!

In Other News, My Cat Gerard Butler Is Doing Well

my cat, Gerard, Butler, doing well

In other news, my as yet unpublished novel remains unpublished. It has also failed to sell more copies than the Da Vinci Code.

In other news, reviewing the Bible with one star on Goodreads failed to generate any controversy that I know of.

In other news, my mother practically begged me not to do the same with a certain other religious text. I honored her wishes. She is right. Practically speaking, that would have been a bad idea. It is probably a bad idea to talk about it here.

I finished most of my grilled cheese sandwich at Ben and Nick's last night instead of just the usual one-half. It was delicious and some nice people picked up my tab. Thank you, nice people.

In other news, I met up with the doctor and we went back in time in the Tardis and I was able to help a stumbling Herman Melville think up an idea for his next novel. A whale of a tale! Actually, I wrote most of the book. The best beach read ever. However, he made me leave out the part that Moby Dick is actually an alien from outer space. It was a great experience, and I'm glad Herman Melville got his book done, but sometimes it still just really hurts not to get any credit.

My attempts to prove that I am a direct descendant of Vlad the Impaler remain unfruitful. But 'Dracula' and 'Draia' are both Romanian names and they both have 2 'a' in them. Their must be a connection! yo vral un pec palinka! Sorry, that is ghetto Romanian, and spelled phonetically. It means 'I would like some schnapps (blood).' I just thought, if I could prove my heritage, I might get free drinks at Death Guild. Not that I go there. But I know people that do. Maybe they could drink for free.

In other news, my cat, Gerard Butler is being lazy and not hunting, catching and torturing the annoying moth that is fluttering around my computer desk. Apparently he is taking a little vacation from being a Spartan.

And finally, DISABILITY! the musical is in the planning stages. Get your jazz hands ready.

here
is more about the shooting. I've met the officer at a neighborhood watch meeting. Seemed like a 'good officer.' Shitty shitty shitty shitty. For everyone.

Rest In Peace, I Hardly Knew You, But You Always Said 'Hey'

A nineteen year old boy who hung out nearly every day with his friends on the stoop next to mine was shot twice and killed by a police officer yesterday around 5 pm at the intersection of 54th and MLK, two blocks from my house.

I have heard conflicting reports, which doesn't strike me as unusual. Police say a loaded gun was found at the scene. Other eyewitnesses say the boy was shot in the back as he was running away. The police had tried to detain him as a homicide suspect, but were unable to restrain him. He was not, however, particularly large.

This is crazy for so many reasons.

If the police are wrong, then this kid who has always struck me as a good kid, who has never caused anything untoward to happen in the year I've lived in this neighborhood, who always says 'hey' or 'hey' back or nods hello, who never does anything in his spare time but hang out and talk with his friends on the stoop is an innocent victim of--what? a case of mistaken identity? A panicked choice to run from police?

If the police are right, then this kid who has always struck me as a good kid, who has never caused anything untoward to happen in the year I've lived in this neighborhood, who always says 'hey' or 'hey' back or nods hello, who never does anything in his spare time but hang out and talk with his friends on the stoop killed someone yesterday afternoon.

The devastated faces of his friends today as they gathered to console each other were a lesson in humility. Because this boy was closely linked to the two-flat I live in, most of the gathering took place in my driveway. One of the kids talked with me for awhile about how they were trying to stay strong. All I cared about was making sure they stayed safe and he reassured me that they were. Even though there was some drinking, and the grief on their faces was immeasurable--one other boy just leaned against the house and cried for hours--no one got out of hand. What I am trying to say, again, is that they all just seemed like good kids. Some adults in the neighborhood helped a lot too, ordering pizzas for the kids, supervising, etc.

I know good kids do bad things sometimes because I used to work in child services in Chicago. I've seen it happen. A good kid makes a terrible choice.

(I was a fucking idiot when I was nineteen years old. A lot of us were. A lot of us (self included, I hope) lucked out and got a chance to grow out of it. )

But I also know the police do bad things (or just plain make mistakes) and lie about it to cover their asses. Again, in Chicago, I've witnessed stunning displays of police brutality from my living room window.

I don't pray. I don't believe in god. When the boy who spoke to me today on my driveway told me that he believed his friend was looking down upon him and his other friends able to see how they were staying strong for him, I didn't know exactly what to say. I certainly didn't contradict him. I just kept listening.

So I don't believe in praying. But I believe it's possible to wish people well and that that act can mean something. So even though I may never really talk at length with those kids again, and even though I know that none of them are ever going to read my blog, I can wish for them.

They are so shocked and so angry and so hurt regardless of what the 'facts' of the case turn out to be, if they can be found out for sure at all. So I wish for each and every one of them, but especially for the boy who spoke at length to me today, and for the other boy who just leaned against the side of the house and cried for what seemed like hours, that they can find healthy ways to express their grief and their anger, that expression of grief can slowly (so slowly) aid towards its eventual assuagement, that though none of them will ever be able to forget, they will be able eventually to remember their friend with joy and not just sadness. That they all make good choices in their lives. That life doesn't come down too hard on them for the bad choices. Or that they at least get second chances and shots at redemption.

For all of you, my young neighbors. For all of you.

The Really Great Thing About Waking Up at 3am All The Time Is That By Nine-Thirty I Feel Like I've Accomplished A Lot And Can Kick Back With A Beer

Just another insomniac enjoying his non-fat double latte.

After A Lot Of Careful Thought, I've Decided That The Best Poetry Reading I've Ever Been To Is The Imaginary One That Takes Place In My Head

Some friends of imaginary poetry enjoy a good cake and ice cream banter after one of my imaginary readings

Really, not to be arrogant, but what is better than standing in front of the mirror and reading about 15-20 minutes from your manuscript? There is no audience making uncomfortable noises, impatient shifting with their limbs, or just distracted looks like when is this person going to stop? Also, the really great thing about imaginary poetry readings in front of your mirror in your bedroom with the door shut and the music turned up just loud enough so that none of your roommates can figure out what you're doing, is that you do not have to listen to anyone try to make banter. But you can make banter up for yourself, even if only your cat is laughing. My cat, Gerard Butler, is really fond of these special readings, although sometimes he does do really annoying things like meow to leave the room when I am halfway through a poem. Doesn't he understand? I only have twenty minutes. I am timing myself! And deluding myself also takes time!

Dear Satan: I Am Very Tired From Funneling So Many Depraved And Selfish Requests From My Friends And Aquaintances To You

Three. Part Two.

Satan,

Things are getting a little out of control at this end. My good friend Jack Morgan alone had 113,215 requests mostly having to do with you not letting specific people into hell so he will not have to spend the afterlife with them, for example, Destiny's Child. That is a lot of laminated cards for me to read into my direct line to you. We are talking about me reading off laminated cards way into the night and all Jack did for me was buy me a grilled cheese sandwich, three beers, and an unlimited supply of ginger ale. That was nice of him, but since he owed me money anyways, I think he sort of took advantage of me in his zealotry to make sure he does not have to spend any more time with Destiny's Child than possible.

Some other requests I couldn't call you with because I was too tired:

"Satan, if you make make my cellulite go away, I will sacrifice a seeing eyedog in your honor and deliberately disorientate the bereft blind person."

"If you make my as yet unpublished book of poetry sell as many copies as Billy Collins without once requiring me to sacrifice artistic integrity, I will burn a number of religious books that say bad things about you in front of people that really care about those religious books."

Oh wait, that is me. Or:

"If you make my doctor write me off work for a month because I am disabled, I will sell drugs to small children near their schoolyards."


And so many more!


My body is exploding from all of these evil thoughts. But whatever you do, Satan, don't come visit me at work for a month. I am disabled. I do not, for the record, have a cellulite problem. At least not one I plan to admit to any time soon. They have cremes for that now you know!

Thirdly,

I'm Really Broke. But Now I'm Going To Earn Money By Renting Out My Direct Line To Satan. Do You Have Something You'd Like To Ask Him?

Not Two. Three.

Not everyone has a personal chat room with Beezlebub himself. But I do. It's called having three bumps show through your t-shirt when it's cold instead of just two like you normal people.

We could work out some deals, not unlike those two-year contracts so many cellular providers require. If you help me pay my rent and get some Tidy Cat for my pampered cat, Gerard Butler.

But no you can not see it. Only special people get to see it. Unless the air is a little chilly and I just happen to be wearing a thin t-shirt.

Instead we could work out a system sort of like those old mass cards Catholic churches sold so that the priest would say masses for your dead relatives. The priests then said the masses you ordered for your dead relatives while simultaneously using the money you scrounged up out of your misguided grief and devotion to buy lube to rape alter boys.

Just think! You could come to whatever bar I'm hanging out at and fill out laminated cards with your questions / comments / deal proposals for Satan and later in the dark of the night I would whisper into my witches' tit and carefully note each and every one of the Dark Lord's replies, including any follow up questions he might have for you.

Please consider my suggestion carefully. I will also accept groceries. Please note however that I do not eat canned tuna packed in oil. I prefer the Starkist fresh pack. In water of course.

Also, I will let you buy me beers and pub snacks.

The Only Reason I Escaped Being Sacrificed At the Viking Funeral Today Was Because I Convinced the Angel of Death I Am Not A Natural Blond

I had to, you know...

It has come to my attention that there is a Beowulf movie that I haven't yet addressed.

But really. 1/3 cup Beowulf+1/3cup historical Arab chronicler+ 1/3 cup extra misogyny=13th Warrior!

Cannibalistic, goddess worshipping, underground dwelling Neanderthal types who wear Venus de Milo figurines attached to their belts? Normally I would consult a preeminent detective like Sherlock Holmes or Nancy Drew to unravel the mystery of where this sort of thinking originates. However, as Michael Crichton wrote the book the film is based on and is not known for subtlety, I am going to go ahead and surmise that this movie takes an anti-goddess worshipping stance. Which is okay by me. Anything or anybody that entices normally rational women to build huts out of pine cones and woven grasses in the college quad to celebrate their menstruation is a force that should be mocked as often as possible. Just like I am doing right now.

There are some major similarities between Beowulf and 13th Warrior. I would go into them but I would really much rather say something kind about my friend Jack Morgan who let me read his manuscript and it's quite layered and thought out and I did not feel disgusted even once, probably because instead of blowing a gasket, I sat around for awhile and asked myself why he was doing the things he was doing. And I came upon some possibilities that are pretty mind-blowing. So go Jack! That manuscript is something you can sink your teeth in and keep finding more. Of course, I should still tell you about the really important similarities between Beowulf and the 13th Warrior. Basically, one of the band of 13 plays one of Beowulf's band in Beowulf and Grendel. Coincidence? I think not! Those viking-looking guys are all in the same movies anyways. Why won't anyone make an Elizabeth of Bathory movie? I could play one of her handmaidens. I have that Elizabeth of Bathory handmaiden ethnic look. But then I would have to stand naked in the snow while she froze me with water and bit me until I bled and then we'd all have to get our blog bags out and throw up.

Something Very Bad Happened At My Work Today

I did not work very hard at my work today.

My mother sent me an email I can't even open because it's so nice. I'll probably just go around feeling ashamed for awhile before I finally delete it.

It's hard to be funny all the time. A friend gave me a manuscript to read. I wrote something funny then deleted it. It felt like a lie. But I am in a better mood now than when I was always trying to be funny. I just want to say what I think. The manuscript is something to look forward to. I get so caught up in shits and giggles sometimes. The shits and giggles make me sick.

I have to get out of Borders. So I took some good steps today. Anything better than inertia. Wish me luck. But don't think you are never going to have to hear about Selma, or my life as a wolf, or my dashing cat, Gerard Butler. I just needed a little break because my roommate was driving me crazy. And that guinea pig is getting all holier-than-thou about 'rations' and 'appropriate dosages.'

In Other News, I Have Absolutely Nothing To Say About Anything

Please enter the void of my mind. It is ugly and sinister here, so make sure to bring layers.

I had to go away for a few days. But I am not sure where I went. There was some guinea pig there wearing a fanny pack who kept trying to give me Klonopin.

I met a lot of lost souls along the way. People who had committed all sorts of sins.

You're just going to have to bear with me, I told them. Because I'm not exactly sure where I'm going. I just woke up in a parking lot somewhere. I remember that I went to the store to buy cigarettes. I must have had a fugue. Hopefully I lucked out of having to do something hugely responsible.

The others didn't buy it. Also they thought the guinea pig was really, really weird. Go back to school, they said. And then suddenly I remembered who I was. I was Selma, Beowulf's girlfriend! I had been waiting for him to swing by my hut on his horse because we had planned to go for a little picnic, but he never showed up and then somebody sneaked up on me from

behind and hit me over the head with a piece of petrified troll dung.

I don't think I remember a guinea pig there but we might have just eaten it.

Just A Few People I Think I Might Like To Meet

not quite on the list

1. Christine de Pisan. Sure, she could write. But what did she look like?

2. Gerard Butler. Mostly to apologize for taking his name in vain. Over and over and over again. And over. With no real plans to stop.

3. Okay, you caught me. I listened to Enya last night. I needed help falling asleep! But that doesn't mean I want to meet her.

4. Jesse. You know. To find out what happened to his girl! (You have to admit that "Jesse's Girl" would be a bold and unusual way to start off any wedding reception. That first special dance between bride and groom. Hints of a back story.)

5. Amy Winehouse. Amy Winehouse this, Amy Winehouse that. Mostly to slap her around. Why should she get all the credit? A number of us have been quietly destroying ourselves behind the scenes without accolade since long before she even got her first tattoo.

6. Selma. Obviously. And I think everyone can guess the question I would pose: who the f*ck ...?!

7. The unnamed, underpaid individual who is going to be changing my diapers when I'm old, if I make it that long. Thank you in advance. Please don't beat me.

8. My 'inner child,' if you will. The last time I saw her, she was in the fetal position. However, I am pretty sure that she can be coaxed out with a rapid succession of piping hot tuna melts and delicious tapioca puddings. Maybe my outer child should get her inner ass on a plane to Chicago. Before I finalize my travel plans, though, I will have to consider one burning question--

Burning Question: Who is going to take care of my cat, Gerard Butler, while I am gone?

Burning Answer: My cat, Gerard Butler, is a Spartan! Spartans are like wolves. They do not necessarily get to eat everyday.

9. That elusive health care professional I know is out there somewhere who will admit that 'everything in moderation' is actually true. Take cigarettes, for example. They can't be all bad. Just check this out if you need proof--


To stand under the blue gleaming sea of wide air
and burn in so obviously pious a manner
a fragment of white cigarette
is to contribute to the negative of the moon's light and glitter,
to the cold moon on the water

(Miyazawa Kenji, from "The Moon on the Water and the Wound")


But then, I really like cold moon on water. So maybe Miyazawa Kenji as well.

10. Last but not at all least. The anonymous poet. He would lecture me on the danger of laughing hysterically while simultaneously rolling over in one's grave. Multi-tasking can be dangerous. Just because you are dead does not mean you can't hurt yourself.

Oh, and go see Lily Brown at Pegasus tonight!

In Other News, I Had to Work Yesterday. And Today.

I used to live in Bavaria. In Bavaria, the Ascension of Mary is a state fucking holiday! No mail. All stores are closed. As an atheist I wholeheartedly disapprove of this unabashed union of church and state. As an atheist who enjoys eating potato salad and going to bbqs, however, I wholeheartedly embrace these bizarre religious practices.

In other news, I didn't feel very well at work today. I told my friend-at-work Rebecca that I thought I might be suffering from soy protein deprivation AS THE CASE OF THE PURLOINED CHOCOLATE SOY MILK STILL HAS NOT BEEN SOLVED! Rebecca was surprised I hadn't called out sick. She thought that 'soy protein deprivation' sounded like a 'Berkeley' illness.

I know who fucking drank my soy milk. I just don't have any proof. I haven't found any little drink box straws while rooting among my roommates' personal effects for clues. But in my heart and in my soul.

In other news, Korean tv dramas on AZN are only fun to watch alone or maybe with one other person who will pretend not to notice how into it you are.

I need to read a book. Please tell me what book to read.

In other news, I don't think my mouse is working properly. Or my hand isn't working properly. Or the soul attached to my hand. Actually, that's probably it.

I Am A Gentleman And A Scholar. Except When I Am Neither A Gentleman Nor A Scholar.

I would put a picture of myself here except that I am so ashamed.

Like when I came to workshop totally unprepared and did not even feel slightly guilty about it. In fact, I felt sort of good about my lax nature. I further did not even bother to use the class time to hurry up and write comments in the margins based on the useful things that other people were saying. I have not been in a workshop where anyone has ever said anything useful. Unless it was something good someone said about one of my poems. That still counts.


On a recent Saturday afternoon when I was in a bad, bad gloomy mood: instead of diving into one of the 3 new books of poetry I bought at Pegasus and writing various sorts of super-serious book reviews and sending them off to serious literary magazines (possibly laboring under the perhaps false assumption that if I publish a book review somewhere, I have a better chance of someone actually consenting to read my poetry before the inevitable rejection slip) I took a 3 1/2 hour nap with my adorable cat, Gerard Butler, and got on the Who the F*ck is Selma train again. How many more stops can I make on that train before I get to the end of the line? Don't worry, I'm sure we'll find out together.


(Anyone who can figure out why my roommate is talking on the phone so goddamn loud right this very moment should let me know pronto. I'll be checking the comments field every 5 minutes for your ideas.)


Worst of all, I recently deleted all of the Kurosawa films from my Netflix queue and replaced them with movies like "Phantom of the Opera," "Blades of Glory," and "Druids." We all know how I feel about Vercingetorix! I did not regret my choice.

I Am Going to Have a Niece! Her Parents Are Catholic Republicans! I Will Be A Hero!

a very relaxed Gerard Butler, just moments after sipping the last of his raspberry / hibiscus blend purchased the day before at the natural food store

I have something very serious to talk about today. I have a niece on the way now. I take this very seriously. I mean, everybody has to have a bad influence. After all, her due date is October 31. What a badass day for a baby to be born! However, that means I have just a few days short of two months to get a motorcycle, develop a severe drinking problem, and get ill-thought-out tattoos on a whim in very visible places. Like my forehead.

This is a really tall order, people. However, I figure that by making a spectacle of myself and just in general ruining my life, I would be doing my entire extended family a huge favor as well. If my family didn't have me to embarrass myself at wedding receptions or family parties, there would be nothing to do but make small talk with Beverly, third cousin once removed that no one possibly has ever met before. The family that laughs at the failure of others tends to stay together. And why shouldn't I be that failure? I can get up on a table, wag my finger, and sing "No, No, No!" in a smoky, soulful voice with the best of them.

Still, I am feeling a certain amount of trepidation.

Sure, I used to be a bit of a wild child, if I do say so myself. And I do. But now I'm older and hopefully wiser and I've gotten used to hanging out in my bedroom with my cat, Gerard Butler. We'll often spend a quiet evening together drinking herbal tea and talking late into the night about our feelings.

A typical conversation might go like this...

Me: Gerard Butler, am I fat?

my cat, Gerard Butler: Meow!

Me: Oh thank you, Gerard Butler. It's so good of you to say so!

my cat, Gerard Butler (coyly): Me-ooow?

Me: Oh sure. You can be Selma this time.


Going out to the bar every night to the point that I am sweating alcohol and look and feel like an ashtray would get in the way of these small but heartfelt interactions. But I mustn't be selfish. I have my niece to think of. Maybe I can compromise. Maybe if I ever get another f*cking cat carrier my cat, Gerard Butler, can ride on the back of my motorcycle.

In Other News, Please Bring Your Pitchforks and Torches to My Residence at 10pm Tonight.

some trusty villagers on their way to my residence to drive out my foul-tempered roommate

My foul-tempered roommate is not delicious to live with. And my poor little furry friend, Gerard Butler, is feeling the brunt as well. My cat, Gerard Butler, is not used to being verbally abused. That's it. That foul-tempered roommate has got to go. 10pm. And tonight it won't be stylish to be late.

In other news, everything I am wearing right now was purchased by Gerard Butler's deadbeat dad. The important thing to understand about going out with people with $ is that you pick someone who is not your dress size. Likelier than not, they will show their affection by buying you things. And because they aren't your size, once they are inevitably no longer affected by you, you will get to keep the merchandise. Not that I need cocktail dresses living in poverty and squalor as I do. Of course there are those fancy dress parties I throw in my bedroom for myself and my cat, Gerard Butler.

Ah! I just went down to the corner for Jarritos and now I am Jarrappy!

Apropos Gerard Butler. Last night when we were playing 'Beowulf' and 'Selma,' I got to be 'Selma' for once. My cat, Gerard Butler was quite dashing as Beowulf. I could see why Selma wanted to sleep with him. Of course she also slept with Grendel. Oh my god, did I just write that?! Did I just give it away?! We still haven't figured out just who Selma is. But this much I know: Beowulf + Selma + Grendel=LOVE TRIANGLE! If I were the anonymous poet, I would probably go back and forth between thinking all of this was very funny and periodically turning over in my grave.

In other news, my mother said if I came to Chicago to visit her she would make me piping hot tuna melts and delicious tapioca pudding every night if I wanted her too. Actually she didn't say anything of the kind but it never hurts to plant the seed. She also mentioned that it would not be any sort of problem for her whatsoever to do all the dishes herself while I lay face down on the sofa.

I was thinking I should write something called, 'Frankly, I Prefer My Own Mother to My Mother-in-Law.' Actually I don't have a mother-in-law right now, but I sort of did for awhile. Brrrrrr! The best part ever was when she sat me down at her kitchen table and told me to give her the "dirt" on my mother. My mom and I had a good laugh over that one. Everyone knows only I am allowed to criticize my mother. Usually during some part of the process of being ungrateful. In any case, the moral of the story is you shouldn't talk shit about my mother or I while make fun of you on the internet.