When I bought a humidifier right before the hardware store closed, the guy said "The season's almost gone for those." And he said "You know you should really update your blog." And I said "But I don't want to have to post a giant thing about AWP and how it was great to see everybody and to thank Jon and Molly for letting me crash and
Juked for tabling with me and Tyler Gobble for being amazing and Jordaan Mason for getting nerdy glasses so America would let him into the party and the
12 Good Readers for being 12 Amazing Readers and Adam Robinson for convincing me to sing at the Literature Party even when I couldn't talk and to Christy Crutchfield for singing with me, and to a million other people, and I am feeling stressed out just thinking about trying to express how I love to see everyone and high five them even when Boston is sneering snow at me and I get laryngitis, and shit, dude,
NOÖ [14] isn't online yet, and I was trying to wait—" and he opened the humidifier with his teeth, which were retractable knives, and he started scratching at the humidifier with his knife-teeth, and I was like "Shit, dude, I already paid for that," and he said "Remember how you used to think that middle aged woman with the flute case who always was walking the opposite direction from you when you walked to high school next to the train tracks and the
cowboy hat store and the house where the cute Mormon girl lived—remember how you used to think the flute woman was a time traveler from the future who had paid to go back in time to see you walk to school?" And I told the dude, "Shit, dude, don't tell my blog that, that's embarrassing." And he said "Well, you were wrong about her, she just had flute practice really early, but Google is secretly a project started by a time traveler that is dedicated exclusively to making sure you survive and always get guacamole on your tacos and make blog posts every three months or so." And I said "Like in a Terminator sort of way?" And he said "More like in a Jingle All the Way kind of way." And I said "—" and he said "Your credit card is declined."
So I guess I should tell you a few things. First off, a sad thing.
Red Lightbulbs closed up shop after a lot of glory. But they went out on a mustard packet of glory too, so at least there's that. Thanks to Russ Woods for including
a few poems of mine in the last issue, and thanks to Russ and Meghan Lamb for starting
RL in the first place. If I ever own a lot of rooms, at least one of them will be lit by a red lightbulb, I promise. My poems in the last
Red Lightbulbs are about bro gaggles, wrist tattoos, everything rendition vs. everything experience, a good life if you don't weaken, and that time when the grocery store stopped carrying the cereal you bought every week because "sorry sir, no one ever buys that kind." There are literally a million other wonderful people in the issue. Do check.
Moving on to capitalism, namaste to Alisa Damaso
for asking me to gibbleg about having a job and spitting up blood sprinkles in the same hours.
There are never before told secrets about Mr. Glitchy, the heroic computer virus I invented in 2nd grade. There's a story about the last cab I took at AWP. There's something heady I said about "self-abandonment" and some freaky shit about molasses. Plus it's an article about a
lifestyle, not
me, sheesh, which means you'll get to read about lots of other cool peeps like Chelsea Martin's boo, the laid-back/kick-ass Ian Amberson. That photo to the left is of Ian, not me, because, uh, guys, that helmet? C'mon.
After AWP came
APRIL, an amazing Seattle literary fest started by a bunch of smarty-pants folk. Deep thanks to them (Tara Atkinson, Willie Fitzgerald, Kellen Braddock, Frances Dinger, and Aidan Fitzgerald) for being amazing and putting everything together. I was excited to write "reverse fan mails" for their fundraiser,
one very silly about a guy stuck to his toilet and
one of course about lesbian astronauts and Star Trek action figures and Facebook stalking and love. Can't stop, won't pop. The other great thing is
Richard Chiem was sweet enough to table for Magic Helicopter Press at the APRIL Small Press Fair, and you can see a picture of him looking all genius-statue and selling books in the sexy smoky darkness.
Flavorwire, which I usually feel sort of cheated by since it's neither a flavor or a wire, made me feel aw-shucks ^ shucks by putting me on this list of
"10 Millennial Authors You Probably Haven't Read Yet." Lotsa mighty fine folk on that list. Thanks to Emily Temple and Flavorwire for the nod. I don't care what anybody's nonchalant uncle says: I feel excited about all the new adds of
Look! Look! Feathers on Goodreads!
BTW, if anyone is just finding this blog from that list and is reading this and is wondering why I don't have a more professional/easily navigable website, it's because I have a lot of old coffee cups under my lamp instead. For example, I don't have any professional headshots, so the picture I am putting here is a picture of me making a weird face with
Chelsea Martin—another Millennium Falcon that could've been on that list—and Jacob Perkins, all of us holding Chelsea's books in the sweet new space
Mellow Pages in Bushwick, the walls of which are covered with Mill Enema authors. Jacob and the wise'n'bearded Matt Nelson (and the shadowy behind the flannel scenes "
Jon") run the fuck out of this place, and I love them and their mossy Pacific Northwest ways.
Spinning the map all the way to the Atlantic Northeast, I would be remiss to exclude the
gloriously re-arisen Notnostrums, now hosted at Flying Object, which just put a new issue out. They published a stand up routine by me and some tug-your-lip-so-good poems by all stars galore. For example, everybody loves
"Kelly Brutal" by Shannon Burns and now it's your turn.
If you want to know what makes me blush,
Michael Filippone talking about me and America and reading "The Peaches Are Cheap" makes me blush. That video is really long but it has like an hour of good books in it, and plus Michael Filippone is really good looking—I mean, I think? I have been told before that the men I think are attractive are not the men women think are attractive, but c'mon, this dude is good looking, right? The professional coffee cups under my lamp agree with me.
The next thing on my list to talk about is
NOÖ [14], but like I told my humidifier salesman, it's not done yet, so I will instead show you a picture of
Ozzie Smith sitting with Werner Herzog. Werner says: "The only thing that is lacking is the dinosaurs here, to eat every fan’s heart." Update: obviously this did not really happen, drr—good work Robert J. Baumann for fooling me. But also making me very sad because I wish this had really happened.
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