Yes, Those Are Sexy Poems

The Poetry Experiment is linking to two No Tell poems by Catherine Daly.

Almost Forgot

Charles A. Livingston, author of Palingensia, is not Charles Ambrose Livingston, my grandfather.

After reading the poem and my father comparing signatures, it's clearly two different people.

New Issue of Beltway Poetry Quarterly

from Kim Roberts:

Volume 6, Number 3, the Summer 2005 issue, features the work of five gifted poets: LINDA PASTAN, former Poet Laureate of Maryland and author of 10 books of poetry; CHUNGMI KIM, playwright and author of 2 poetry books; ROBERT L. GIRON, founder of Gival Press and author of 5 books; ALAN SPEARS, whose poetry has appeared in journals including Gargoyle and The Potomac Review; and NANCY NAOMI CARLSON, Associate Editor of Tupelo Press, and the author of 1 full-length collection and 2 chapbooks.

Beltway is a journal featuring authors who live or work in the greater DC metro region, as well as a Resource Bank for area authors. Don't forget to check the Poetry News section (a combined listing for July and August), and our newest Resource Bank feature on Literary Blogs from DC, MD, VA, WV, and DE.

Recent Revelation

It would not be untrue to say one of the main reasons I wanted to have a child was so I'd have an excuse to do a bunch of arts and crafts projects.

I never needed an excuse to write poems or bead. But I feel like I need one to finger paint or iron leaves in wax paper.

Right now I have no time to bead and very little time to write poems. If I gave Gideon paste, he'd smear it all over his face. Probably eat it.

Everyone says treasure these moments because they grow up so fast.

But I want him to hurry and grow up. I'm anxious to do projects with him, instead of to him (what happens if I . . . he cries! no, he's laughing! no, he's barfing!)

I'll convert my writing studio in the basement into our craft workshop. I'll find a cheap place to rent for my writing studio. I'll get a nanny to watch him two days a week so I can write, the other three we'll spend in the craft workshop -- making crap and hanging it on the walls like an art gallery.

This is the dream. This is when it would benefit us to live in a more affordable area -- in a place I could actually afford to pay for a writing studio and child care. But this is where the jobs are and somebody needs to have one. Leaves and pine cones don't grow on . . .

oh wait, they do.

It's everything else that doesn't and honestly, I don't want to live in the sticks.

I'm going to have to find a way to make it work here.

I Really Mean It This Time

I'm already becoming one of those empty-threat parents.

Earlier Today:

I spank little babies like you for breakfast!

Babies are hard.

Speaking of Featured Poems

Yesterday I discovered The Poetry Experiment.

Yeah, I found it by doing a Technorati search on my name. I'm lame, I know.

A Happy Way to Start the Afternoon

The Page is featuring today's No Tell Motel poem by Shirley Stephenson.

Swoon.

This Week at the No Tell

Shirley Stephenson grows tired of pesticide, spermicide, garden plots and tombs this week at No Tell Motel.

Apology

Sorry if that last post took away all of my "mystery" and/or "allure".

p.s. I liked Batman Begins.

p.p.s. White lace tangas.

Off & Spelling it Out

It's been a weird weird week and to say I've been "off" would be an understatement. If I sent you an odd correspondence that offended you, please disregard it. I was probably just trying to be funny. If I didn't get your humor, it was me, not you, trust me.

If you're a new reader to this blog, hello, thanks for visiting.

I apologize for stating the obvious, but I feel it needs to be stated.

No Tell Motel is an online poetry journal, not an actual motel. It is not an escort service. I cannot and will not have anything to do with you getting laid. I have already offered all my advice here.

When Molly and I say we "rendezvous" with poets at No Tell Motel, we simply mean we publish their poems.

"Meaningful and discrete poetic encounters" does not mean I want to hook up with strangers in town on business. It's just a cheeky way of saying I like to read poetry.

The World Through My Eyes

. . . is kinda blurry and sometimes there's 3 moons in the sky.

This is what the full moon looked like leaving Baltimore.

Moon Over Baltimore

Just got back from the reading in Baltimore. Michael Ball does a fabulous job running the i.e. poetry series. There was a snafu with the original venue but he was able to secure a space last minute at Area 405 Gallery which was very cool. The uneven floors made it a little difficult to navigate in heels, but I managed not to fall on my ass.

Kevin Thurston (and a woman who's name unfortunately I didn't catch) kicked off the night with a performance piece that involved a ball of yarn soaking in a bowl of Hersey chocolate, some jogging, red tennis balls and a book about God wanting you to be fat. At the end of the performance everyone in the audience was tossing tennis balls. Then I read. Following a performance of chocolate, I truly was vanilla, but it went OK anyhow. I read half love poems and half anxiety poems. Some of the anxiety poems had lawyer stuff in them. I picked them because Tender Buttons was in attendance. Also in attendance was Kelly (Bennington chum) and hubby Brad. The third reader was performance poet Lauren Bender, first she read some funny found poems using the newspaper personals and after that was an on-the-spot audience interaction poem based on a game that if I remember correctly is called "My Grandmother's Trunk." It also involved jumping jacks, push ups and best of all, underwear flashing. If you just happened to walk in at that moment knowing the reading line-up, you might have thought that was me lying on the floor with my skirt hiked up to my waist. But it wasn't. Lauren is in much better shape than me. The last reader was Amy King and she was wearing a D I T C tee, which she explained stood for "Dykes in the City." She also shared an interesting "bet you didn't know that" piece of trivia about herself. She cuts her own hair. Amy read mostly new poems, not the ones in her new book, Antidotes for an Alibi. Two of the poems she read will be featured in No Tell Motel in August.

Afterwards Amy King, Amy's friend Amy, Mary who's running for office, Chris and I had a late supper at a diner called Paper Moon. Which was good because it reminded me that I had to take pictures of the full moon for Shafer Hall's "I'll Show You Mine" contest. I snapped some photos on the drive home and I don't think they turned out particularly well -- so let's just call them arty.

Naked is Not An Option

The night before a reading is always like the night before a date. I stand in front of my closet packed with clothes and say "I have nothing to wear." I have nothing to read. That's what it feels like.

Two of the readers perform their poetry and most of the audience will be their people, so my vanilla anxiety is in full effect.

Swung by the Victoria's Secret sale today and picked up a few things. Went through my drawers and tossed out all the maternity underwear and 38Ds. Bub-bye ugly undergarments.

Bad Housewife/Sandal Update/Books Received

The sandals didn't fit right, so we took them to the store this evening to exchange them for a pair that did. Of course Chris put them in the box not even checking their condition and of course there was dust all over the soles. The salesperson (who remembered me from two months ago) said "You can't return shoes you've worn outside" and we swore Chris only wore them around the house. But yeah, it looked like the shoes had been worn outside. Chris said, "That's just from the dirt in our house."

I was mortified and the salesperson could tell so in his utter kindness he took a brush to the soles, cleaned them and let us do the exchange.

Let me state for the record that while I don't clean our bamboo floors nearly as often as I should, but they are not so filthy that they'd dirty up your shoes.

On the way home I remembered that Chris did indeed wear the sandals outside, to get the mail.

Whew!

Received/Purchased in the past week:

Water & Power by Standard Schaefer
Nova by Standard Schaefer
Tropic/of/Cubicle by Roderick Maclean
Bad With Faces by Sean Norton
5 AM Issue 22
Swink Issue 2

Weds Reading Venue Change

For those of you who are planning to attend the Weds reading -- the venue has changed.

Weds, June 22nd at 7 p.m.
Readings by Amy King, Lauren Bender, Kevin Thurston and Reb Livingston
AREA 405 Gallery
405 E. Oliver Street, Baltimore, MD

This Week at the No Tell

Kim Roberts absently fondles knobs this week at No Tell Motel.

Father's Day Jubilee

MiPO Sub Call

For its November issue, MiPO seeks reviews, essays and articles that have some measure of artistic primacy.

Not About Me

Today is Father's Day. So we thanked Chris for his great sacrifice of sperm and gave him Kenneth Cole sandals and a belt. Since I've known Chris, he's always had good shoes (very important) except when it came to sandals. He wore Tevas. Not anymore.

Aw crap, the sandals are on sale now. Grrr.

Announcement

Ken Rumble is a PILF.

And everyone knows it.

The Lost MiPO Interview

It's not really lost, but here's some of the things from my interview that made the cutting room floor. The exchange was from March 3 - 14.

Q: So, Ms. Livingston, what made you turn to the dark and seedy world of poetry and what and how inspired you to turn to the black magic of it? I heard once that long ago, poets were seen as witches.

A: I didn't grow up intending on writing poetry. As a child and a teenager I had no interest in it (aside from nursery rhymes, come on, who hasn't done a little Mother Goose in her youth?). When I started college I had every intention of going legit and studying professional writing but the first week I was there I met an upperclassman on the corner of Morewood and Fifth avenues. We were waiting for the WALK signal and got to talking. She explained that creative writing was much cooler to major in because there were less sucky required classes. I was 17 and overwhelmed and figured less sucky classes was definitely the way for me. Still, I had no intention of pursuing poetry. I was going to live an honest life and write a novel. My sophomore year I took my first fiction workshop. I never met any poets who were witches, but as far as I'm concerned my first fiction professor was a witch. She gave me a C on a short story that I considered brilliant and I freaked. I cried in her office and later that evening I wrote her a demented letter demanding an A. Basically she told me to suck it. I tried to take my complaint up the ladder in the department and they told me to suck it too. I was forced to suck it. The following semester I took a poetry workshop with Jan Beatty. I didn't consider my attempts at poetry brilliant so my precious little ego could bear the criticism. Also, Jan was supportive and encouraging and generally open. She made me want to learn and read poetry. You could say I was sucked into it. Poets were the only ones willing to take me in. I was desperate and young and had no place else to turn. That or become a history major.

Q: I think more poems need to be written about Michael Jackson and Tonya Harding. You?

A: I want to see more poems written about Jeff Goldblum.

Q: That's funny. I agree. Sometimes I wish I was a different kind of artist other than a writer. If you weren't a writer, what kind of artist would you like to be, or would you even like to be an artist at all, Reb?

A: Sometimes I wish I was a doctor and able to improve and save people's lives, but would never have survived the first year of pre-med, let alone medical school. I don't have the stomach for that kind of thing. Often I faint when my blood is taken. If there's a needle scene in a movie or on TV, I have to close my eyes. In other artistic pursuits, I wish I could sing well, but I'm flat and off-key. I wish I would have stuck to my violin lessons instead of quitting in sixth grade and wish I would have learned piano and guitar. The truth is that all these things wished for are hopeless causes so I try not to spend much time wanting what will never be achieved.

Q: So share with us when you find the time to write?

A: I used to have a very flexible schedule. I ran my small jewelry business from home with my priority always going to my writing and editing the online poetry journal, No Tell Motel (www.notellmotel.org). So I'd write whenever I had an idea. Sometimes that meant one draft per day and sometimes it meant one draft per week. Those days are over now that I had my son in February. I'm still figuring out how I'm going to balance things, at this writing he's not quite three weeks old. So far when he's been asleep I've been using that time to work on No Tell or write in my blog or read other poet's blogs and online journals. That is when I'm not trying to get a little sleep myself or catching up on Dr. Phil. I have yet to write a poem since his birth, only a few notes and lines. While I'm anxious to get back to business, I'm not rushing myself. I recently figured out a way to get some reading done. In the middle of the night when he's especially fussy and needs to be held I take a book off my towering stack and read poetry to him. It puts him to sleep and makes me feel like I'm being somewhat productive at 4 a.m. I'm extremely sensitive about "motherhood" hijacking my life. Probably excessively so. Obviously there comes along a change of priorities and focus when one becomes a parent, but I don't want it to mean I'm less devoted to my writing or poetry in general. Many female poets that are presented as role models were either childless (or "crazy") that I chose not to use them a guide on how to conduct my own life. Instead I look towards contemporary poets who are close to my age, mothers of young children and manage to be productive writing vibrant, vital poetry. Two that immediately come to mind are Jennifer Michael Hecht and Kirsten Kaschock.

She Just Won't Quit

Since some of you are voicing your displeasure with lists, memes, sharing private info and other annoying blog filler pastimes, here's some more stuff you don't care about because I won't be bullied:

What I Did Today:

9:00 a.m. Got out of bed, put on pair of beige cotton bikini underwear
10 a.m. - 11:40 a.m. Yoga class, today's focus was back bending and quad stretches
Noon - 12:45 p.m. Gideon's four month doctor visit, vital stats: weight 15.11 pounds (70th percentile), height 26 inches (87th percentile), head circumference 45cm (>95th percentile -- baby fucking oppenheimer)
1 p.m. - 1:45 p.m. Lunch with Chris, Mexican, beef taco & cheese enchilaldas
2:00 p.m - 2:15 p.m. Read and briefly commented on poem Tony sent
2:15 p.m. - 3:00 p.m. Played "I am Spartacus" and "Tummy Time" with Gideon
3:00 p.m. - 3:15 p.m. Fed Gideon
3:15 p.m. - 4:00 p.m. Worked on draft of poem after considering Tony's comments
4:00 p.m. - 5:00 p.m. Read e-mail and blogs
5:00 Began composing this blog entry

Note: I've never met Tony in person, but he's my friend. That's right, I make friends via my blog. I have a whole slew of blog buddies.

Let's see, what else, oh in case you were wondering what it would be like to kiss me:


You have a dominant kiss- you take charge and make
sure your partner can feel it! Done artfully,
it can be very satisfactory if he/she is into
you playing the dominant role MEORW!


What kind of kiss are you?
brought to you by Quizilla


Something else you don't know about me: I'm afraid of needles, like "pass out when I give a blood sample" afraid.

I'm also afraid of all this blog chatter about book reviews. I'm afraid that someone is going to call out "Crucial Rooster" as being flip or low on calorie.

When I say afraid, I don't mean "needle" afraid.

It's like, I want your respect but won't play by your rules.

It's like, I wanted that job promotion but wouldn't stop wearing jeans to work.

Whew!

All the general No Tell Motel submissions should have responses by now. If you sent in work and haven't heard, please let me know. We got some great poems -- it's going to be a steamin' summer at the inn of poetical sin (I can't believe I just wrote that). Submissions are closed until September 1.

Time to make the donuts, if by "donuts" I mean read Bedside Guide submissions.

Maybe next year Molly and I will do an all undergarment anthology. Would that be HOT? The Bedside Guide to Unmentionables at No Tell Motel?

Some Might Say . . .

. . . the last post is exactly what's wrong with blogging, but I say it's exactly what's right. Before blogging I would have had to sleep with each of you (or at the very least get you drunk) to acquire such information. I feel like we all shared something very special and yet my marriage remains intact.

My e-mail has been down all morning. Chris is working on it. ETA: In a little while. I hate it when this happens because I'm sure I'm being kept from something very important. Like perhaps some of the shy folks e-mailed me their underwear info instead of posting it.

Let's Blog About Something People Really Care About

What kind of underwear are you wearing right now?

I'm wearing burgundy mesh underwear with pink and green flowers and lace trim. Adorable!

Tony discusses his skivvies.

Come on all you cultural creatives, William Blake's, John Ashbery wannabes. Tell me something I care about.

And yes, I really do care.

Things You Didn't Know About Me

For some reason Deb thinks I'm least likely to post my list. I've been asked the "what are some things people don't know about you" question a couple times recently for interviews. I find this to be difficult to answer. If there's something you don't know about me it's probably because I don't want you to know. The blog/"diary to the world" is a carefully constructed construct. Heh heh, I said "constructed construct".

Nevertheless, I can share some information and continue to maintain my dreamy mystique.

Here are some things I haven't mention in any interviews and you probably didn't know:

Yesterday I was thinking that if I ever had another son (very unlikely in my current state of mind) that I would name him Spartacus. This was after 30 minutes of standing Gideon up (which he loves) and yelling "I am Spartacus!" Last night I also wrote a draft of a poem that mentions Kirk Douglas and Spartacus. I haven't seen that movie in years.

As a child I invented my own country called Kelsla and ruled the neighborhood children with an iron fist. A day of playing "Kelsla" usually ended in Tender Buttons starting a rebel uprising. I would crush them all. The benefit of being the oldest kid in the neighborhood.

Once, one of those neighborhood kids and I rolled dried leaves and pine needles in paper and tried to smoke it. Our lungs almost melted. I reference this in a poem.

I was "pre-engaged" in high school. Pre-engaged means you're engaged to be engaged to be married. It's also a sign of amazing dorkitude.

After receiving a poor grade on a short story in my first fiction workshop (one of the professor's criticisms was that it was too violent), I wrote her a letter demanding she change the grade to an A. The C stood, but I freaked her out pretty good. Soon after that I started exploring poetry. That's right, I'm a poet because the fiction folks wouldn't have me. Does this mean that poetry is for rejects? Yes, I think it does.

I didn't eat rice until I was 21. Only potatoes. Now I eat rice all the time.

I don't drink coffee.

I stated here earlier that my favorite Monkee is Mickey, but what I didn't tell you is that my favorite Beatle is Paul. Although if I met them all back in the day, I probably would have ended up with Ringo.

When I found out I didn't get an administrative assistant job at AOL (I was desperate to "get off the phones" during those first five months) I ran into the restroom and cried.

When I discovered I forgot my shoes on the day of my wedding, I cried.

When my manager (a few years after the "admin assist" debacle) informed me that I was getting the title assistant programming manager instead of just plain "programming manager" I didn't cry. I sat stone faced and said "very well". He kept trying to get me to say how I felt which we all is know is just code for "I want to see you cry." I waited until I got home before I cried. Then I made my plans to go to grad school.

My first night at Bennington, yep, I cried.

Subs

If you have not yet heard from me regarding a general No Tell Motel submission, you will in the next 48 hours. Responses to the Bedside Guide subs are still a few weeks away.

This Week at the No Tell

Aaron Anstett dances with skeletons this week at No Tell Motel.

The Most Thoughtful Review of No Tell Motel to Date

An excerpt written by Jack Anders on MiPOesias Blogisimo:

"No Tell has a style that’s sensual, pink, nostalgic, hyper cultural, intelligent. It feels like sex at the beach, or that drink called “Sex on a Beach” -- a little naughty, sometimes (strange and/or sex poems), but nothing worse than, say, an R-Rated cable tv show. The audience for this spot? Young people who like poetry, middle-aged moms and dads with an interest, gay scuba divers in Bermuda, an angry cop staring out his living room in Nebraska, the millions, the myriads, the lovers of poetry mysteriously interspersed like raisins in bread. So No Tell becomes a “motel” of sorts for the internet cruising individual intelligences. The minds swarm, seethe, of self only in proportion to their lack of being in each other."

You can read the entire review here. It's preceded by a review of Three Candles.

Notes on Shoving, Books and Family

Gideon's been teething this week. He reminds me of Squiggy from Laverne & Shirley. He keeps shoving his fist in his mouth.

Last night I read in a book (perfect bound) that I shouldn't use pain relief gel on his gums because who knows what it will do to him. Help him sleep? Relieve his pain?

Dirty fucking hippies.

There's been some back and forth on some blogs and mailing lists about whether or not chapbooks are real books. I don't quite understand why someone would say they're not, but the argument is being made and I've been following it. I find the distinctions offered kind of amazing.

A few days ago I received Palingensia by Charles A. Livingston. I'm leaning towards the conclusion this not being my grandfather, but my sister got her hands on a signed copy and will be showing my dad next week when she meets him at the beach. That should solve the mystery once and for all.

Palingenesia is 31 pages and stapled. It's a chapbook.

On the off chance this is our Charles, it may all be moot if it turns out chapbooks really aren't books after all.

Hah, won't I be the double asshole!

Online journals really aren't real journals either. At least that's what someone told me recently. He said most academic English departments frown on CVs with more than a few online journals listed.

Glad I never applied for an academic job at an English department. It was hard enough trying to explain an MFA in Creative Writing to corporate employers in 2001.

I was more hirable in 1998 when I left the job market for grad school.

Some might say the MFA ruined me. Those people might not even be referring to my marketability in the job market.

We're tired of all these arguments, aren't we? Why do we bother engaging them?

Because we care.

Nobody outside our little world gives any respect to what we do, so when someone in our little world disses something we care about, well, it's like your mom agreeing with all those kids on the school bus -- yep, you really do have funky penis breath.

But these other people in our little world aren't our mothers. So why do we care?

Because we do.

I did not send this postcard to President Carter, but it does kind of look like my handwriting.

Charles A. Livingston had a half brother named Lotten.

Lotten claimed to have played pool with Carter.

Lotten was a drummer.

Lotten claimed that the drummer on the back of the Bicentennial quarter was Carter's way of giving him a nod and keeping him quiet. He told me all about it at a Livingston family reunion in 1986.

I saw Lotten on the T (the Pittsburgh "subway") in 1990. I recognized his toupee.

I reintroduced myself to him. I said: "We met at a family reunion. I'm your brother Charles' granddaughter."

Lotten replied: "My brother Charles has been dead for 15 years."

I said: "Yes and I'm still his granddaughter."

The other people in the car looked at me funny.

Lotten's dead now too.

Poet Swap

The Melic Review summer issue is here and playing footsies with some of No Tell's most beloved poets: Molly Arden, Laura Cronk, Matthew Shindell and Zachary Schomburg.

That's Right, TB . . .

. . . and I'll be getting [fill in the blank].

Better get to work on making that slight frame tight and bouncy.

Fuck Y'all, I'm Going to Paris

. . . at the end of July. Just purchased my ticket.

Strange Issue is Here

OMFG -- hurry up and check out the latest issue of MiPOesia -- The Strange Call issue edited by Gabriel Gudding. The line-up is amazing. Poems by:

Michael McClure, Rae Armantrout, Joanne Kyger, Christian Bök, Jerome Rothenberg, David Lehman, Ron Silliman, Joanna Catherine Scott, Denise Duhamel, Heidi Lynn Staples, Amy Gerstler, Pancy Maurer-Alvarez, Jenna Cardinale, Simon Perchik, Jasper Bernes, Jennifer K. Dick, Robert Fernandez, Reb Livingston, Allyson Salazar, Geoff Bouvier, Ronald Palmer, Lara Glenum, Peter Ramos, Daniel Borzutzky, Joe Amato, Jeff Harrison, Kass Fleisher, Anny Ballardini, Michael Rothenberg, Josh Corey, Paul Violi, Chris Pusateri, Brian Kim Stefans, Jorge Guitart, Peter Davis, Karl Parker, Catherine Daly, Holly Iglesias, Katia Kapovich, Aaron McCollough, Standard Schaefer, Louise Landes Levi, Carl Martin, Lisa Jarnot, Dale Smith, Kent Johnson, Randall Williams, John Beer, Justin Lacour, Ngo Tu Lap, Amy King, Ken Rumble, Jenny Boully, Julian Semilian, K. Silem Mohammad, Laura Mullen, Rachel Loden, Elizabeth Hatmaker, Eden Osucha

Plus translations, interviews and an essay.

My poem and interview.

On Being Misunderstood, Part 2 (Lawyer edition)

If you're having a tough time finding that Mr. T onesie for your newborn, there you go. Thank you Jayme and Sue, now I know what to get stuck in a time warp Phatback if he ever makes good on his threats.

This weekend was a virtual shopping spree for Gideon, his grandmother and aunt got him a whole surfer dog ensemble and Shweta, my best jewelry customer, is trying to make me feel guilty for closing up my beading workshop by bearing a bounty of baby gifts. Ladies, I can only do so much while taking care of an infant! Mercy!

On Sunday Tender Buttons threw an informal dinner party and served Primanti-style sandwiches. My numerology report said I was going to meet somebody new and I did, two new people in fact. Lawyers. Apparently now that TB is one, that's all she'll socialize with. I took her aside and said, "Look, Dimitris and Henry seem like OK people (for lawyers), but can't you find yourself a nice taxidermist to hang with?" But TB is all "Lawyers are the only people who understand me. Oh, I'm so alone in the world. You don't know what it's like. Oh woe." Just like I didn't understand last summer when she was studying for the bar because apparently if you've never studied for it you just can't possibly know. Of course when I pull that shit and say "Until you've been pregnant, I don't want to hear it!" TB is always the first to roll her eyes and point out that if I raise Gideon as an only child he'll be a self-absorbed weirdo. Better that than a lawyer.

Oh, I kid, I kid.

(Cause I can't tease her since she's a woman and will hold a grudge for a god damn eternity.)

This Week at the No Tell

Bruce Covey is chained on the opposite side of the room this week at No Tell Motel.

Sexy Poets

Poet Nobodies

Mark Your Calendars

Wednesday, June 22, 2005, Baltimore, MD

7:00 p.m. Red Emma's Bookstore Coffeehouse

Poetry readers: Amy King, Lauren Bender, Reb Livingston & Kevin Thurston

That Time of the Month

for the Crucial Rooster!

Carrboro Poetry Festival, The Hat and The Canary.

And bitchy berets.

Baby Oppenheimer

I don't say "genius" due to the implications and "Einstein" is probably copyrighted.

Even Though I'm More of a Cat Person . . .

. . . I still think you should swing by Chris' uncle's art gallery (The Tatistcheff Gallery, 529 west 20th street, 6th floor) and check out the latest show which was just written up in the New Yorker. Tell Uncle Peter that Reb sent ya. It's OK. We're on good terms with each other!



And here you can download a PDF about the next show ("Dances of Death") opening June 16.

The Unknown Poetry Collection of Charles A. Livingston?

This evening I received an unusual e-mail from a woman named Traci inquiring about my grandfather (died 1976). She was rummaging through a box on its way to her mother's yard sale and found a poetry book entitled Palingenesia by Charles A. Livingston. She did a google search, found my blog entry with two of his poems and thought the writing style similar. She very thoughtfully wrote me and offered to send the book.

I have no knowledge of him ever writing a book and kind of doubt it is him, but judging by the 1940 copyright it is possible and of course I am quite interested in seeing for myself.

See Daddy, yet another SCORE for my "diary to the world."

Joon!!!

June always seems like such a big deal. Warm weather, end of school, vacations, sunburn, bikini waxes . . . Last June I found out I was pregnant, was miserably ill and lost my 91 year-old grandmother. I also contemplated getting a gun, taking a dear friend out back and putting him out of his misery. Must have been those damn pregnancy hormones. Oh god, I am so thankful not be pregnant this summer. I know a few of you out there reading this are pregnant and yes, I'm very happy for you and yes, it's wonderful and you'll be so happy when you have that little baby (or will eventually, don't fret if that happiness isn't instantaneous), but let me be clear: I am so happy I'm not you right now. I am so happy not to be pregnant -- especially in the summer.

I remember late last August I was four months pregnant, not really showing, just having that little tummy and wearing my low-rise pants just a little bit lower than a woman in her 30's should. I was at the beach, in an outlet store, bent over, perusing bedsheets when two cows walked by, one said in a rather loud voice "crack alert" and the other cackled. I looked around and I was the only person in the vincinity. I placed my hand on my backside and yes, those bitches were refering to my ass crack. When I got home I marched myself to Mimi Fucking Maternity and purchased pants that fit properly. There I met a 7 week pregnant ninny who was already shopping for maternity gear. "I'm so excited that I can finally shop here!" she kept exclaiming. Being excited about a baby, I get that, but being excited about maternity clothes? Even nice designer maternity clothing, you have got to be kidding me. Chris felt I was harsh on the young lady. I don't think so. If I could have gotten away with it, I would have slapped her for her own good. This past weekend I walked past that same Mimi Fucking Maternity and the glee of not having to shop there was overwhelming.

This post is a distraction from writing my "Crucial Rooster" column. Shh, we don't want An Angry Booker.