Thinking Outside that Bubble Once in a While

My usual pilates instructor often inquires about my progress with the Bedside Guide. Today she suggested that I write a play or screenplay using four of the poems. My immediate reaction was "Write a screenplay? I need to finish laying it out. Write the foreword. Send galleys . . ." I told her I wrote a script using sections of four poems to be used in the online trailer/commerical that's being put together by design king, Charles Orr.

But now it occurs to me, maybe she really didn't mean that I should write a play. She was an English major at GMU and she's talked about going back to grad school for film writing. Maybe she was hinting that she'd like to write a screenplay for the anthology?

Did I miss something obvious? I'll need to ask her next week. Sometimes I get so consumed with all the things that I have to do, it doesn't occur to me other people do stuff too.

Also, I have a difficult time thinking when I'm supposed to be squeezing my buttocks and tightening my stomach. Powerhouse, my ass.

Or not.

Just a Peek

Available in Most Motel Drawers January 2006



Cover Design: Robin Vuchnich-Salerno

It's a Nice Day

It's almost December and it's over 60 degrees.

Gideon let me sleep in until (gasp) 10 a.m. and he's still down for his noon nap.

Received some good news regarding something that starts with a P -- but the editor is asking for discretion on my end, so I've asked him for specific guidelines on such discretion.

Started a new health regimen on Sunday so I can be thin for my first in-person meeting with T-Rob at AWP. I can't have him be dreamy and me still lugging cumbersome baby weight one year after delivery. I'm feeling better already.

This Week at No Tell

Jen Tynes howls with everyone this week at No Tell Motel.

Lucipo Reading on My Vocabulary

The sweaty Baltimore reading will be on My Vocabulary (KSDT) today at 4 p.m. PST -- I have no idea what time that is Eastern time, 7 p.m. maybe?

I tend to read pretty fast, but this reading would probably qualify as speed reading. It was so hot in that bookstore on that July evening that all I wanted to do was get the hell out of there. I'm not sure how Matt edited the recording, but I'm guessing he cut out the part where the two of us argue over whether to continue or not. I wanted to call it quits, he wanted to keep going.

Despite all my heat-induced pissiness, the other poets gave very good readings.

Swoon

Intriguing and Sensual

Now I'm finished with all my Christmas shopping!

I always thought I'd make a pretty good assassin.

No guns, explosions or death from fisticuffs.

Poison would be my weapon of choice.

Some people might say there's no honor in poison.

But that's just the man keeping me down because it's something I'd excel at doing.

Would you turn me away if I showed up on your doorstep with a pie?

Holiday Season Warning # 1

I snagged this link from Greg Haverkamp:

Confessions of a photocopier repairman

Photocopier supplier Canon is warning customers to take better care of their office equipment during the Christmas period, claiming that the festive season traditionally leads to a 25 percent hike in service calls due to incidents such as the classic backside copying prank.

Such a stunt, a mainstay of the office party, often results in cracked glass on the copier, with 32 percent of Canon technicians claiming to have been called out to fix glass plates during the Christmas period after attempts to copy body parts went wrong.

Confession

I am an excessive baster.

Chris calls me a masterbaster.

I baste that bird like every 15 minutes.

Ha ha ho ho hee hee.

So, are all those chicks really crazy?

or

Have they attained a higher state of consciousness and are reacting logically? -- logically according to the higher state of consciousness

What if in the next life those who achieved this higher state of consciousness are the ones calling all the shots?

You should really be more concerned about this.

Time might be running out.

Poetic Mad Libs

I haven't been posting here the past two days because I've been otherwise occupied in a discussion on a mailing list -- a discussion that stemmed from the "woman" posts I made on this blog last week.

Here's the synopsis of my posts on the list -- fill in the blanks with what you think I said or if you already know what I wrote, come up with something better:

I didn't realize your poems and my ____ had so much in common. They both ____!

I WAS Ken ____. Then my ____ fell off.

Today's helpful tip: Chicks don't want you telling them they have a big ____.

I enjoy being a ____.

I refrain because I don't want to down in history as the Poet ____.
------------------

Nancy Milford, the biographer of Edna St. Vincent Millay and Zelda Fitzgerald, once said in a lecture at Bennington (I'm paraphrasing), "Every great woman poet has been at least one of the following three things: Single, Childless or Crazy"

So I guess I only have one shot at greatness.

Cover your crotches!
------------------

I'm just fucking with you. Who wants to be great? I'm in it for all the hot poet tail.

Mediocre poets live longer too.

Chris Bitches at Wired

Spam-o-Rama

He's so adorable when he's appalled.

The Academy of American Poets sent a letter asking for money.

First, I used the outside of the envelope to make a list.

Then, I gave the letter to Gideon.

Our answer: sorry, baby ate the contribution form.

Carly at McSweeney's

Here.

This Week at No Tell

Simon Perchik hears the darkness closing its eyes this week at No Tell Motel.

Fine -- I was missing the "stopper." Chris just showed me how to properly put together the sippy cup.

"No Spill" sippy cup, my ass.

What Appeared in My Mailbox this Week

Oh Forbidden by Jill Alexander Essbaum
Heaven by Jill Alexander Essbaum

32 Poems edited by Deborah Ager, John Poch and Bill Beverly

Bramble by Joseph Massey

A Generation Defining Itself: In Our Own Words - Volume 6 edited by Marlow Peerse Weaver

Articulation

Don't know about you, but I've been working for years on how to better articulate my emotional response.

I find it incredibly challenging, yet important to both my writing and my general well-being.

There is nothing natural about it.

Caveat: This is coming from a gal who considers her pregnancy to be the most unnatural event to ever happen to her.

Without being able to distinguish frustration, fear, disappointment, sadness, nervousness, anxiety, helplessness, etc. it just all equated to rage.

To steal a phrase from Shanna, I was a little ham of rage.

Lashing out provided a too quick fix.

Lashing out in poems proved problematic and generated unsatisfactory results.

My teacher, April Bernard, gave me an assignment. Every morning I was to write a few sentences describing how I was feeling. Only describing feelings -- no analyzing.

That sounded incredibly easy. These MFA programs, what a joke!

April instantly recognized a problem in my poems that I was oblivious.

I was an emotional cripple.

My poems were crippled.

I vaguely remember writing these and am surprised at what I was feeling back then. What I do remember is how difficult it was to do this assignment every day. I began dreading the "easy" assignment because everything I came up with was, well, pretty basic and lame. All that time I thought I was being smart in my poems by excluding feelings, but really I was just avoiding going near them because I was not equipped.

Below is an edited sample of what I was doing for my assignment

January 22, 1999

. . . I am nervous that I will fall back into my same lazy routine. I woke up at 9:40 a.m. and was disappointed in myself that it was not earlier . . .

January 23, 1999

. . . I have anxiety over money and pregnancy. I feel like X is keeping something from me and I'm supposed to know what it is.

January 28, 1999

. . . Last night I was angry because X came home from work four hours late. I was angry because I was worried about how he was and angry because he was inconsiderate. I became increasingly annoyed because he kept repeating his same dumb excuse to why he didn't call.

February 4, 1999

Today I feel fat and ugly. I suppose those aren't emotions, but signs that point to depression. But I'm not depressed, maybe just a little bit down on myself. My pants are tight. I haven't worked out in over a week because I haven't been getting up early enough.

February 8, 1999

This morning I got an e-mail from X saying how she felt bad not inviting Y to lunch with her and Z. I completely understood and I started getting angry thinking about all the times Y made a situation unpleasant. I always think about what I would say when I would confront Y with it and then I get really riled up. I hate it when I think about these things, my stomach starts to burn. . .

February 10, 1999

After beating X at Scrabble last night, I feel smarter. X can barely put together a sentence, why should he always beat me at Scrabble?!?

February 16, 1999

I'm pissed off at the customer service people at X. They didn't even read my question and instead referred me to an area that I had already be to and did not have anything remotely related to my letter . . . I hate it when people do not listen to what I am saying. It makes me feel like I don't count, but I know I count, I count more than most people do and I want to be treated that way.

February 22, 1999

I'm a little riled up right now over a discussion with X and Y. . .I get so angry at people who will constantly complain about their situation, but won't take the time for any self-evaulation. People never want to consider what it is that they're doing wrong, just what's wrong with everyone else and everything around them. It reminds me of Z. It reminds me of A. It reminds me of my failure.

March 10, 1999

I am feeling nervous and panicking about situations that I have to rely on others. Situations where I have no control. Situations I am not equipped to handle properly. The ten inches of snow we got is melting and our laundry room is flooding again. . . I keep asking X to look into it, but as usual his priorities are 100% with A.

March 18, 1999

I feel tense and angry. My stomach burns. My head lightly throbs. My lower back aches. . .

March 22, 1999

I feel sluggish. . . My feet are cold. My eyes are sticky. My breath is sour.

March 23, 1999

I feel overwhelmed. My shoulders are stiff. My lower back aches. My teeth inadvertantly grind. My jaw is permanently clenched.

March 24, 1999

I'm angry and frustrated. My teeth are clenching. There's a steady throbbing in my head. I want to yell at someone. I want to make people regret their inconsideration.

March 29, 1999

I feel disappointed with myself. I am avoiding my work. I'm avoiding my workspace. I'm avoiding working in my workspace.

April 8, 1999

I feel sad. I have no control over all the bad things that are happening to the people around me. It makes my stomach hurt. My head throbs. I feel insecure about myself.

April 12, 1999

I feel sick. My throat is pasty and clumpy, my pores are clogged. I'm stuck. My eyes are sticky, filled with goo.

April 28, 1999

I feel tired and worn, my eyelids want to close, my body wants to stretch. I want to shut out the world and live in my thoughts.

April 29, 1999

My stomach is cramped making me feel like I want to fall down and vomit. Whatever is in my stomach, I want it out.

May 10, 1999

I feel tense, my teeth feel like they're moving more crooked. My eyes are continously sticky. My muscles are tight, yet stomach and ass are flabby.

May 11, 1999

I'm angry. I want to avoid X and people in general. I want to sit in a room all by myself and not talk to anyone. If I start to talk, I'll scream.

May 24, 1999

I feel soft (weak) and overwhelmed. My body jiggles. I have no control over myself.


----------------------------

Whew! I was like, crazy. I feel like I should apologize to anyone who spent any time with me in the first half of 1999.

OK, I hope someone appreciates all that cause looking back, it's pretty embarassing. No, it's extremely embarassing. I feel my face burning red and have an intense desire to cover my face.

I'm no longer a little ham of rage. For real, yo.

But articulating emotions, both in writing and in life is still something I focus on -- every day.

Bits

Gideon has a nasty cold -- spent most of the day consoling him. Babies are such babies.

Received my contributor's copy of A Generation Defining Itself: In Our Own Words - Volume 6. It doesn't look like it's available to purchase yet. Other bloggers included in this volume are Aimee Nezhukumatathil and Matthew Thorburn.

My miPOradio page is updated.

Today at The Happy Booker

In Praise of Chapters

Cussing Like a Chick

Just in from TB:

"Once again, you put the bad word detectors in Outlook to work with you naughty language."

But I Prefer The Raspberry, Don't Destroy Me Because I'm Beautiful

From Tea Leaves:

Many beers have fruit flavors added to them. These are all for girls. I drink them anyway, but I drink them knowing they are for girls. Most beers with fruit in them are terrible, and should be avoided as a matter of course. However, the Belgian fruit-flavored lambics are quite good. Kriek, flavored with sour cherries, is incredibly fabulous and absolutely worth drinking. Some people prefer the raspberry-flavored framboise to kriek. These people are apostates, and must be destroyed.

About Last Night

At 8 p.m. I put Gideon to bed and with Chris away in Miami I figured I'd finally have a long stretch to get some work done. No Tell subs, Bedside Guide layout, a shower perhaps. I was tired and thought it would be best to take a short nap before getting down to business.

At 7:30 a.m. I was woken by the telephone. It was the credit card company checking on the charges Chris was making. I was reminded of two things:

1. If I intend on waking up, set an alarm.
2. If I'm out-of-town being naughty, use cash.

This Week at No Tell

Nate Pritts and his shifty friends do curious things this week at No Tell Motel.

The Woman Question -- Can Girlie Girls Be Taken Seriously? (Or, Are They Just Nice To Us Because . . . ?)

I haven't read Maureen Dowd's Are Men Necessary? but I did read her touted article in the NY Times. Generally, I very much admire Dowd and her style, but her attributing her partnerless status to men not wanting to settle down with smart and ambitious women rubbed me the wrong way. I must agree with Wonkette's snipe, "Thank God we aren't as smart as she is or else we'd never have found a husband."

That aside, I've always respected that she pursued her career on her own terms. She doesn't try to mimic the other male columnists. She doesn't try to meet their standards. She meets her own. When I read her columns or watch her on Meet the Press I never for a second forget that she's a woman. So often we're led to believe that to succeed we need to mask being a woman or at the very least, not put it out front and center.

But do men ever get so distracted or so impressed that they forget we're women? When it comes to our art or our careers, should we take one second to consider "how will this play to the men?" That seems awfully distracting.

Perhaps it should be a consideration if we work in certain sections of advertising.

A couple months after I launched No Tell Motel, I noticed that we were accepting a lot of work from women. This surprised me because the majority of literary journals publish a majority of men. I like a lot of male poets. I even assumed I preferred male poets. I had read a lot more men. I mentioned this to my friend and he said, "That's because men aren't sending to No Tell. The design. All that pink! What man would want his poems there?"

This worried me. I wondered if by simply being myself was I alienating/turning off potential male contributors?

I have some anecdotal experiences that suggest that might be the case in some instances.

But let's do the man thing and look at the numbers. As of tonight, No Tell has published (or agreed to publish) 31 men (46%) and 36 women (54%).

A noticeable lean towards women. Compared to many other poetry magazines we're practically the Lifetime network.

But my friend was wrong. Apparently many men want do want their poems to be surrounded by sweet girlie pinkiness. 55% of our submissions have been sent by men while only 40% are from women. I am not sure about 5% -- the authors either used initials or have gender neutral names.

When I read a poetry magazine, I never start counting women. If it's a 60/40 ratio (either way), I'm probably not going to notice. But when it's around 80% male, I do notice. How could I not? It's the same way when I walk into a room. If there's 20 people in a room and only 4 are women, it's a sausage party.

I'm writing that matter-of-factly. That doesn't upset me. There are lots of reasons why publications lean certains ways. Most of these reasons aren't nearly as insidious as some might suggest. I guess I could spend a bunch of time pointing out why this is and what they should do to change and make themselves more open or representative or do something they're not doing.

But who am I to tell you how to do your job? I don't want you to tell me how to do my job. I don't want my job to be pointing out everything that's wrong with your job.

I'll just show you how it's supposed to be done and you can either appreciate what I'm doing or you can find reasons to dismiss or ignore the job I'm doing.

It's OK. I don't want to conquer the world. I want to co-exist.

And be worshipped.

The Woman Question -- Who Do We Elect to Speak for Us?

I don't call myself a feminist or lay claim to any feminist allegiances. I used to, but I don't anymore. Why? Because it further fragments and distances me from women more than I already am. Sometimes I feel awfully lonely.*

Because I kept my last name when I married and believe in reproductive rights I am supposedly more enlightened than the woman who changed her name and doesn't agree. She's backwards and I'm progessive. Yet, because in my mid-20's I walked away from a "promising"** career to study poetry and write, edit and design jewelry from home, I lost a great of my "forward thinking" cred. I became a "housewife" -- a term I used to detest, but later embraced because 1.) I am somebody's wife, and 2.) I spend a great deal of time at home during the day. So where's the slur?

There are categories (mother -- childless, married -- single, virgin -- whore) and all the nasty sub-categories ("working" mom -- "stay-at-home" mom, natural -- fakies). Then there's all those pesky things like class, race, religion, sexual orientation -- well, at least men have to deal with those too.

There's not a single woman or organization that can honestly claim "I/We speak for women." We are too many and too diverse. So stop asking us to step up and represent for all. If there was a "woman" view (or only two or three views), we'd rule the fucking world. There's more of us. We're the ones who can actually "make" the species. You can only club so many of us over the head before we'd collectively poison your chicken soup.

That's one of the many reasons why a lot of women don't step and join the boys in these conversations -- because most of us are smart enough to know we aren't speaking for all (or a majority) -- yet that is the task put on us. What happens when two women publicly disagree with each other? It's not perceived as the intellectual sparring of great minds -- no, it's a cat fight, two chicks mud wrestling.

Go jerk it to some porn. I'm not participating in that.

Oh, and I'd rather have my eyelids stapled open and forced to watch every Meg Ryan romantic comedy for infinity than write about "poetics" in the fashion of the boys.

I'm sure most women reading the above paragraphs disagree with my statements. Thank God.

* "Lonely" here does not equate to an invitation for creepy men to inquire about discrete daytime trysts.

** "Promising" here equates to making a shit load of money which equates to economic freedom which apparently equates to equality -- although I wasn't especially enamored with what my career was promising.

The Woman Question -- Where Are They?

These past couple of weeks I've been reading a great deal of commentary in blogs and mailing lists about women doing stuff (and in some cases, not doing). Women blogging. Women writing poems. Women publishing. Women editing. Women reading. Women getting naked. Most of the discussion is by dudes. Nothing wrong with that, in fact, men thinking and talking about the "woman" subject is often a positive step. But as usual, men have a tendency to hijack the subject and own it -- which is different than taking ownership of one's contribution to the situation. The men say, "But the women aren't participating!" and "The women aren't submitting their poems!" and "Oh where, oh where are all the women?"

Maybe these elusive women have been all around you your entire life? Did you ever think of that?

Maybe these elusive women don't want to participate the way you want/expect them to participate?

Maybe these elusive women are alienated/annoyed by the system you are so insistent they need to join to be relevent?

Maybe these elusive women choose/prefer being ignored/overlooked/dismissed than doing "it" like a man?

Maybe these elusive women just aren't that into you?

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

MiPO Reading at Books and Books

If you missed the reading, you're in luck, you can listen to it here. The recording starts with a few interviews followed by the reading. You can see every picture I took here.

For those of you who have heard me speak, you may wonder when did I become a 10-pack a day smoker? I lost my voice (well, most of it) the day before the reading. My interview and reading are the most difficult ones to hear in the recording. Why not? If I'm not reading too fast or collapsing like Lana fucking Turner, I'm a dipshit mute. On the bright side, there is a certain sexy quality to the raspiness, or at the very least, an "experienced Mrs. Robinson" quality.

The most exciting part of going to Miami was the chance to meet people I've been corresponding with. (The second was going on the Star Island boat tour with P.F. and his girlfriend, Honor, and seeing Ricky Martin's house.) First I met the lovely and creative Didi Menendez. We were chatting and I was doing my standard "Oh, I met that guy once, what a dick!" After dissing a few poets, I noticed the recorder on the table and was all "Oh, um, is that thing on?" Didi assured me that it wasn't, but if by chance it was, she is in possession of some serious blackmail material.

Bruce Covey is really tall. Being that I have a lot of experience with tall people, we became fast friends.

I understand the plight of tall people.

I met David Trinidad. Now, I never corresponded with David before, so I said "Hello David, we have a mutual friend, Amy Gerstler. I have a big crush on Amy." He said that he loved the slang poem of Amy's that appeared in No Tell Motel. I said, "What poem?"

Look, I just publish the poems, I don't actually read them.

Ugh. I hate spacing like that.

I met Nick Carbo and Denise Duhamel. Nick knew me as the woman who abandoned her baby for Europe and documented it on her blog. I apologized to Denise for being such a dumb ass laying out her Universal poem. She was very sweet and was all "Oh no, you were great!" I told them I didn't approve of poets marrying each other and that they both could do much better.

Fast friends.

Gianmarc Manzione approached me after the reading and said, "We have a mutal friend, Carly Sachs." I said, "Who?"

I chatted children with Didi and Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz. Didi has four and Gwendolyn has seven (!?!?). They did their best to be sympathetic to my plight, but apparently not every mother has as much trouble not dropping their babies as I do.

Didi and Diego Quiros


Didi, Howard Camner and child


Me, Bruce, P.F. Potvin and Honor


This is a really nice picture of some of the readers and audience members, but you can't see anyone if I post it real small, so click here to view it.

Denise and Nick (OK, I approve)


My friend, Mr. Ivan Bou, loudly knocked over a stack of books and interrupted Gwendolyn's reading while his wife, Juana, tried to make it all better.


Gwendolyn persevered despite Mr. Ivan Bou.


Amy Serrano taped the entire reading


Rita Maria Martinez invoked Jane Erye


Gianmarc


Nick, Denise, David, Didi

Now Why Didn't I Think of That?

Check out Carly Sachs' poetics.

On Being a Good Kisser

Got back from Miami a few hours ago. Will post an update about last night's MiPO reading with 10,000 pictures later tonight.

But here: Let yesterday's Crucial Rooster tide you over until then.

How Did I Miss This?

". . . I am / the little man in the brown suit your mother / warned you about."

My Wine: Take Me To Miami

Flying to Miami in the morning and leaving the laptop at home. Checked the weather and it says it'll be in the low 80's! I already packed away my summer clothes. I'll figure something out.

Last promotional link -- if you're in Miami or neaby on Friday, come see a bunch of rad poets (and me!) read.

Sent off November's "Crucial Rooster" to The Happy Booker. I'm guessing it'll be up on Friday. It's another column all about me and how the world revolves around me and how it's not interesting if it doesn't somehow involve me.

I've also involved Rebecca Loudon. Thankfully I live much too far away for her to slap me.

Good stuff.

I'll be back on Saturday.

A View of My Poetics

You Can Stop Calling the House

I voted. I get annoyed when campaigns call the house. I understand it's effective (I used to work campaign phone banks when I was an undergrad so this is all karma related), but damn it, it's not just one or two calls over a week, it's several a day. If I hang up, the recording calls me again the next day. Last year the calls woke me during my numerous necessary pregnancy naps, this year they woke Gideon during his necessary naps. They ring our doorbell, litter the stoop with flyers . . . I get it, I read the paper, there's an election.

My other issue with voting is our new polling booths. Ever since they went electronic (which I like), we're voting in the open. I miss the big old booths with the big curtain and true feeling of privacy. The tiny four inch "blinders" don't cut it. I feel exposed.

For instance, the guy behind me was having issues and despite being well into his 30's, it seemed like he never voted before. "What's this? And this?" he kept asking polling attendant. "What does L mean?" The polling attendant was stumped. I stopped voting, turned around and answered "L means Libertarian." The guy chuckled "Libertarian!" which I first took to mean Hah! Like I'd ever vote Libertarian! but apparently he never heard of the word libertarian and thought it sounded weird, like I was making it up. Then he asked the attendant, "What does write in mean?" and "I don't understand, what am I supposed to do with this proposition?"

That man was an idiot, but I think he had the right for me not to know he was an idiot.

After covering Gideon with "I voted" stickers we went on with our walk. A woman approached us on the path announcing she was an Episcopalian and was there to talk about our savior Jesus Christ. I said, "No thank you" and kept walking. She yelled, "Do you guys need help with anything?" and I replied "Nope, we're good."

But that was a lie. My house is a mess (it's always a mess now). I could have really used some help cleaning the bathrooms and doing laundry. I asked, "Gideon, should I put that woman to work?"

Gideon can't talk, but a mother knows.

We agreed. We both wanted to be left alone.

But Don't You See?

Underwear is the new poetics.

Nobody Likes a Gender Nazi

Spent the last two evenings perusing certain advice and service websites for research (seriously, writing research). I've concluded there are things in the male psyche I really don't want to know about and wish I hadn't stumbled upon. OK, I always knew, just didn't like to be reminded.

I love men, I really do. Some of my best friends are men.

Trying my damnedest not be a gender nazi.

Aside from some technical frustrations (which are probably all based on my not being smart enough to figure out how to do things correctly), I'm enjoying laying out the Bedside Guide even though it's taking 20 times longer than I anticipated. I always have way too rosy projections. But better rosy than dire.

Back to my own little world. It's lovely there this time of year.

WTF?

You are a Gender Nazi. Your boundary-crossing
lifestyle inspires awe in your friends and
colleagues. Or maybe they're just scared you
will kick their asses for using gender-specific
language. Either way, the wife-beater helps.


What kind of postmodernist are you!?
brought to you by Quizilla

I just can't bring myself to write about a dead kitten. Yesterday Chris found a dead squirrel in the carport. Some things touch too close to home.

This Week at the No Tell

Kate Greenstreet communicates with flashlights this week at No Tell Motel.

Grocery Lists

Unpleasant Event Schedule Special Feature: Grocery Lists

The grocery list I gave to Chris the other day:

Bebe food (fruits, vegetables, chicken and other healthy stuff, not that pureed macaroni and cheese shit!)
Formula
Bananas
Vanilla Yogurt
Milk
Cereal (Frosted Shredded Wheat & Smart Start)


p.s. I will not link to the Washington Post article in Sunday's edition alerting parents to the latest shocking teen trend: group sex in high school auditoriums.

"Maybe I'm a naive parent," said Ted Hauffe, whose son, Daniel, is on the football team, "but I will say my kid would never participate" in group sex.

. . .

Asked whether the incident related to any cultural trend or had any deeper meaning, a group of boys watching the T.C. Williams field hockey game scoffed. "It means there's eight weirdos around," said Alex Haitsuka,17, a junior.

"I'd become very unaroused" at the sight, he added. "Nine hundred out of 901 people would not want to be involved."

Mommy Moans #6

Over dinner I said, "What are we going to do about these shocking teen trends when they come for Gideon?"

"The boy will be smarter than that" replied Chris.

"Sometimes smart kids do dumb things" I mused.

But honestly, how do we know if he's smart? We're just assuming because he's our son and we want to believe.

I do have my concerns. When I read Ashbery to Gideon before bedtime, I get the distinct impression he doesn't even follow the poems.

Mommy Moan #5

I am now one of those parents I used to mock in my youth. The only way I hear about what kids are "doing these days" is from the twisted angle of the media. Never have I felt so out-of-touch.

Recently on a Dr. Phil episode called "Shocking Teen Trends" I learned kids are playing a game called "Space Monkey" and it involves one kid choking another kid until he passes out. In my day it was safer, it was auto-erotic asphyxiation. You did it alone and as long as you weren't a total idiot, nobody ever had to know about it. Most kids aren't smart enough to make educated guesses on multiple choice tests and now they have to pick someone responsible enough to know when its time to stop with the choking? Can't these kids come up with a better way to get high?

Just today I read that this adorable snowman T-shirt is a coded symbol for drugs. Now I have to go through Gideon's entire wardrobe and try to figure out if he's been prancing around in any coded symbols. In my day, there were no coded symbols. There was never any question what meant what. If you were wearing an AC/DC shirt, you worshipped the devil. Clear signals!

I feel the need call an emergency PTA meeting. I'm so in over my head.

Mommy Moan #4

Baby has favorite song and will stop crying if it's sung.

Favorite Song: "If You're Happy and You Know It, Clap Your Hands"

--OR--

It could be worse. It could be "Up Up With People".

Up, up with people! You meet people wherever you go!
Up, up with people! They're the best kind of folks we know
If more people were for people
All people everywhere
There'd be a lot less people to worry about
And a lot more people who'd care.

Mommy Moan #3

Baby had workable schedule. Such a happy family. Then we pushed our clocks back. Such a cranky family.

--OR--

Fuck Daylight Savings!

--OR--

Take your sun and shove it.

Mommy Moan #2

Baby loved applesauce until I bought the big jar and now baby won't eat applesauce.

--OR--

Applesauce? No, Applesuck!

--OR--

Guess what I'm serving Tender Buttons for dinner?

Mommy Moan #1

My jogging stroller calluses my hands and I'm not even jogging.

Wilma Can't Stop The Poetry (Updated)

Looking forward to Miami next week. Ivan is picking me from the airport. I'll be staying with P.F. Will finally meet Didi and Bruce. Sam is a big suck because apparently six months and several reminders isn't enough heads up to make the reading.

Reading? Yes, there's a big honking reading on Friday, November 11 at 8 p.m at Books & Books (Coral Gables):

Readers: David Trinidad, Nick Carbo, Terri Carrion, Reb Livingston, Michael Hettich, Bruce Covey, Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz, Gianmarc Manzione, Howard Camner, Barbra Nightingale, Rita Maria Martinez, Diego Quiros and Amy Serrano

Master of Ceremonies: Birdie Jaworski

If you're nearby, come out and hear us. I've been told Coral Gables has electricity.

Picked up Adobe InDesign this evening and while there's still a lot I have to figure out, this seems to be much better.

Wrote a Patrick Swayze poem and sent it off to Barrelhouse. They're doing a special Swayze section in their next issue. Normally I don't submit poems the same day I write them, but the deadline was last year.

Discussed with Chollie some possibilities regarding the Bedside Guide online trailer. Most recent idea: Phone Sex.

Chased down contributors who still owe a bio. Not finished going through the list.

Consumed way too much Halloween candy these last three days. If Chris doesn't take the rest of it to work tomorrow, I'm burning down the house.

Adobe InDesign Question

Has anyone used Adobe InDesign for book layout? If so, would you recommend it?

I've pretty much come to the conclusion that if I continue to use MS Word, I will go ape shit.