The Dirty Unseemly Work: Shit & Ass

This post isn't directed at any specific person or group. Not one sentence, not one word. If you recognize yourself, relax, I'm not calling you a hoity toity fuckhole. No, no, no -- I'm discussing hoity toity fuckhole behaviors/attitudes I've encountered/observed among a number of folks. Maybe this is a behavior/attitude you exhibit? I don't know, but don't worry I'm not calling you out to rumble-- unless you're Ken Rumble (hey, send an e-mail, big guy!). If you recognize someone else here, there's no need to run over and yell "she's saying mean things about you!" Instead try soaking your ass in a bucket of ice -- maybe the cold will shrink whatever is lodged deep in that angry abyss -- maybe it'll provide temporary relief. If you happen to have something painful lodged in your ass, don't take this as directed at you -- there's no way I'd know anything about the insides of your ass. I only have knowledge of the inner workings of a limited number of asses and those who fall into that category have been contacted and informed that this post is not referring to anything discovered during my time in their asses.

Jesus, this is like putting a warning label on a plastic bag.

I've mentioned that I consider the relationship between a press and a poet to be a lot like a marriage and you don't have to watch Dr. Phil to know both parties have to work at it. It's not 50/50, it's 100/100. One side can't do it all -- not on poetry wages. A lot of that work is what's considered drudgery -- hardly glamorous.

To continue the comparison to the domestic (something I find quite useful, important and in need of a bit more celebrating) -- anyone who decides to have children isn't motivated because she wants to clean diapers, vomit, lose sleep, spend money, have her home turned into a toy farm, or endure a bunch of nasty glares on an airplane because her kid is screaming. She's motivated for other reasons, but unless she's very wealthy or perhaps has a harem of husbands (lucky bitch!), a considerable amount of time is going to be spent dealing with shit. Actual, literal shit.

I don't know anyone who can participate successfully in parenting without dealing with shit.

If someone said she loved her baby's shit, I'd think she was nuts. I've had a friend say that to me and I believe she's nuts. (Mentioned friend is not a poet and does not read this blog and I'm quite sure you don't know her, so yes, here I'm doing what I said I wasn't by referring to someone specifically -- but everyone knows there's always an exception, here's mine.)

But on the flip side, if someone said she couldn't be bothered with her neglected child's fermenting diaper, that being a mother to her was about playtime, bedtime stories and giving long enjoyable lectures on moral fortitude and character ideals in literature -- well, you'd say "that's fucked up -- your baby NEEDS you."

Yes, your baby needs you -- and baby's daddy is at the store, or maybe he's a total prick and "went out for cigarettes" and yeah, you should hunt that fucker down and bring him back to Jesus, scrawl his name and cell on every bathroom stall, but ahem, about the baby . . .

You want people to know about your book? Want it to be reviewed? Want it in bookstores? Want people to buy it? Want people to read it?

Ok, well, time to wipe ass. If you're fortunate enough to have an involved, supportive baby daddy -- super, work together -- it'll be a lot easier. But you're still gonna catch a whiff, whew lots of wretched whiffs.

And yes, there are successful people with babies who don't touch shit. They're called millionaires and they *pay* people to do their publicity and handle adminstrative tasks. Do you take your car to Jiffy Lube expecting they'll change your oil free of charge, just because they're so much better at it than you and ew, you just had your manicure? And if you don't have the $40, do you not change the oil yourself and instead drive your car around until the engine corrodes?

Some people do.