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.