Coming Soon (Sometime in the Year 2006)
From The Whole Coconut Chapbook Series
Cover Design: Charles Orr
2004 - 2009
From The Whole Coconut Chapbook Series
For 2006, I resolve to no longer mention insane and hateful e-mails or comments on this blog. By doing so, I seem to attract and encourage even more idle freaks*. Besides, it's a pointless exercise on my part -- my response will always be "go fuck yourself."
1. Finish my manuscript, Charm's Vandalism
1. When diapering, flip the switch DOWN.
Just finished our third day of Christmas -- now we're in Pittsburgh at my father's. In a few minutes we're going to eat the birthday cake Molly Arden mailed.
Timothy Bradford checks himself in a crescent of broken mirror this week at No Tell Motel.
. . . if having my birthday on Christmas means I get gypped out of presents.
OK -- I don't normally post virus warnings, but Molly and I just received an e-mail in our submission queue with an attached MS Word file with the subject "a christmas card from sherman alexie to molly & reb" from a hotmail account -- perhaps this is just an aimed attack at us by a spurned pool boy, but in case this person is "targeting" other poetry editors . . . whatever you do, don't open the Word document -- it's full of child porn (and possibly a virus). No I didn't open it, I sent it to my network security husband to check it out.
. . . all about cleaning the house and doing last minute shopping. Won't have much time to blog -- so Merry Rebeccamas or whatever it is you celebrate.
|Your Christmas is Most Like: A Very Brady Christmas|
For you, it's all about sharing times with family.
Even if you all get a bit cheesy at times.
I am holding the print galley of The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel in my hand. It looks great. I have to upload the file again (with the ISBN number on the copyright page) and with two small fixes -- then approve the second (and last galley), but it's looking like it'll be ready in early January.
Jenny Browne forgets the red box of raisins at the No Tell Motel holiday party.
Last year in our anticipation of all things baby, we purchased a new sofa and chair and stain guarded the micro-fiber upholstery with a chemical so powerful, bodily fluids bead on it. It has been put through the test numerous times this year, especially during the Spring of Spit Up, and has passed with flying colors. If you came to my house, you'd have no idea what was once done on the very spot you're sitting.
. . . but I have it on good authority this is what Santa is getting for Gideon:
BLONDE GIRL WITH BLACK STREAKS WEARING A TUXEDO TEE SHIRT WHO WAS BLOWING OUT MY HAIR: Is Everything OK?
10 out of 10 relatives agree -- "That's Not Butter" is clearly the best poem I ever wrote.
Scott Glassman sent his podcast to me last week, but I only got around to listening to it now. It's very cool, you should definitely check it out.
For those folks who haven't given the OK or requested changes on the Bedside galleys -- Wednesday is the last day! Speak up or forever hold your peace.
Oh, disregard Saturday's post. I was being goofy and suffering from a sugar-high-like feeling, happiness mixed with a nervous apprehension of how my work will now be viewed. How I might be regarded. Sometimes I'm dopey. I tell people to go fuck themselves on a daily basis. I'm not supposed to care what people think, right?
I'm what's wrong with it.
For the poem "Rare Hawk Evident"
Ten Years Ago:
From Jill Alexander Essbaum:
I've been sending out Bedside proofs all day (if you haven't received yours, don't fret, you will in the next 24 hours or so -- there's a lot of them). One contributor pointed out that there were two spaces after a period in his bio. I responded, yes, of course there are two spaces. He then pointed out that the other bios on the page only had space after their periods. I was like "Crap -- how did I miss all of those?" and started correcting them -- I went through all the bios and noticed about half of them only had one space after their periods. I thought, "How can there be so many dipshits that don't realize there are TWO spaces after each period?!?"
Rain Taxi is having an eBay charity auction of signed books and broadsides.
Joseph Bradshaw is soaked as the fish he would dream this week at No Tell Motel.
The Bedside Guide to No Tell Motel is layed out. Contributors will be receiving galleys this week.
This is a lame music meme, indeed -- mostly because the only music I've listened to this past week has been on the treadmill from my workout tracks. Not the same music I listen to when writing or driving or just chilling -- but since I'm a sucker for honesty:
. . . you can go here and listen to the entire show.
Maybe I should blog about how Chris' hamburger was mistakenly given to the guy in the next booth and how that guy started eating it before the waitress realized her mistake and how the waitress tried to serve it to Chris and how she seemed put out that I demanded she get him a new and uneaten one?