Heigh ho, heigh ho, it's to Cleveland we go

Last year for our anniversary I got Steve opening weekend tickets for the Cleveland Indians.

This year for our anniversary I got Steve opening weekend tickets for the Cleveland Indians.

My god. I nearly fell into a coma just writing that.

But we enjoyed it last year. Cleveland swept Minnesota. I nearly froze my ass off. We ate a lot of pizza.

Last year, I was too embarrassed to wear my ratty purple sock cap. This year, I'll have a fuzzy hat that I got for Christmas.

But I'm still boring.

Is Chain Reading gone?

I can't access www.chainreading.com any longer, and there is much gnashing of teeth in Casa Carter.

I love Chain Reading. I need Chain Reading. Bring back, bring back, oh bring back Chain Reading to me, to me!

I could gnaw the back leg off Nestor the Long-Eared Christmas Donkey

The day turns and it is Christmas. Suddenly, things that yesterday didn't look like foodstuffs become foodstuffs. I'm starving. I want whole turkeys. I want the cart full of potatoes, plus the cart.

Later, in a stupor of dressing and rolls, I shall lie on the sofa and moan about how full I am, and how good ice cream sounds.

So much for delayed gratification

Steve and I are shockingly instant gratification-type people.

What does this mean? You guessed it. We opened our gifts already.

I got loot, people. Serious materialistic joy was had. And then there was the maple popcorn which might sound nasty but my god. It's like a bucket o' crack.

I knew it!

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Lady Madame Julie the Weary of Similar Ealand Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

With thanks to Stick Poet for the link.

The shopping fool is done!

What Steve doesn't know is that there is a theme to his Christmas presents. He won't even know it after he unwraps them. And then I'll stupidly try to explain, and then he'll stare at me as if the Eiffel Tower were suddenly springing from my eyebrows, and then I'll regret trying to explain and also regret the extra twenty or so dollars I spent to bring the theme together in a very inexplicable way.

Yes, I think about this stuff too much. I should just give him food.

Loot!

I received a copy of David Cazden's book Moving Picture yesterday as part of my book exchange. It's like early Christmas loot!

Five little-known facts?

There's a reason people don't know certain facts about me. The reason is that they would fall into a coma with boredom if I told them.

But I have discovered that I was tagged with a meme lo these many weeks ago, and I am supposed to share five little-known facts. I natter on about myself so much that I've probably mentioned just about everything about me, so if you already knew these facts, tough noogies.

1. I sob inconsolably at books and movies if they are even remotely sad. One of my favorite books is Charlotte's Web but I won't go see the movie version. Not because I'm afraid of what they will do to it, but because I wouldn't be able to writhe on a sticky theater floor if it's as sad as the book.

2. I taught myself to play the piano after listening to my mother play. I begged her to teach me, but I wouldn't pay any attention when she wanted to teach me about scales and keys. I just wanted to play the beautiful song she was playing. Finally, she just said, "Fine!" and showed me the starting key for each hand. I had to learn the notes by counting where they were in relation to E. I still play the song: "Fur Elise," by Beethoven. She wanted me to take lessons but I refused. I regret that now, but I don't think I have the discipline to do it.

3. If I'm expecting someone and they're late, I assume they're dead. No, I'm not exaggerating. "My sister was supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Whelp, she must be dead."

4. If I go two days without cauliflower, I crave it desperately. I'm a cruciferous vegetable junkie. I would rob banks for the stuff.

5. I think poetry takes more brains than I've got. See, you might have known that it does, but I'm telling you that I think so, too. I'm a very shallow thinker.

Nine years!

The 20th is our 9th wedding anniversary. He deserves an award. I just deserve cake.

I'm over there, being curmudgeonly

Nic of Very Like a Whale asks me 10 questions here.

Apologies for my grumpiness. I obviously needed booze.

Now there's an earworm to strike fear in your heart

I poured myself a cup of tea and suddenly realized what song I was singing.

Disco Duck.

I have no excuse. I'd try to make up one, perhaps about a brain tumor or an overindulgence in alcohol, but I can't.

Disco Duck.

I deserve a reward for this. I post things like this just to give the rest of you someone to look down on.

My god, they're all so young

For some reason, my TiVo went out and found a baseball game. From 1995. Cleveland Indians versus the Baltimore Orioles. It was the day after Cal Ripken broke Lou Gehrig's record, and the Indians were trying to clinch the Central Division and make the playoffs for the first time in, I think, 41 years.

They had a 22 1/2 game lead on the second place Kansas City Royals, who were leading the Wild Card.

All the players looked so young and slim. Albert Belle looked like he'd happily eat your face off. Orel Hershiser was still pitching. Eddie Murray was still hitting. And Manny Alexander pulled a groin muscle.

I remember that season. I didn't watch it though. I listened to it on the radio with my dad. I developed the ability to parse all the action through clouds of static, to hear Tom Hamilton's voice though the radio was rooms away and I was dozing. My god, that summer. My god.

Finally, Steve's first present came

I thought we might end up in one of our not-so-uncommon situations where nothing I ordered actually came before Christmas day.

Poor Steve. He's so much more organized than I am. On the other hand, he gets to have an extended Christmas.

Our biggest mistake was in getting married right before Christmas. I'm always forgetting to get him an anniversary present. But I got him something nice this year. I, you must admit, rock.

No one's feet are smart, but

I've got the world's stupidest feet. They are larger than most cars. They are tender. They hate sand. I walk on the outside of my feet for no reason.

I think it's time for piratical peglegs to make a fashion comeback.

It's a chocolate fandango

A vendor sent a gift of a giant basket of Ghirardelli chocolates to the office.

I will have to wear one of those Sumo wrestler outfits if I'm not careful.

For the Christian reconstructionist on your Christmas list

It's Left Behind: Eternal Forces.

I would like to believe I'm making this up.

Now, go convert or die, you heathen.

Beta bugs and boo-boos

Apparently most people are being hampered by the Beta comments. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have switched, but I am a doofus.

I do have it set up to allow anonymous comments, so my apologies and you can lambaste me anonymously.

Voice shmoice

Where does this mystical idea of a poetic voice come from? Who is promoting it, and why?

I'm tired of the woo woo notion that we are marionettes for the pleasure of some superhuman force.

Poetry is about craft, not channeling.

Practicing reads

I'm wanting to get more practice reading and recording other peoples' poems to their taste. The way I do readings for miPO is left up to my own discretion, generally. I'd like to try reading to fit an author's notion of how the poem should sound.

I know that in some of my readings, I'm missing the point of the poem, not at all capturing what the poet meant. So few discussions of poetry allow the poet just to say, "No, I really meant this, not that."

So, if you'd be interested in playing along because you're bored or interested, or if you want a recording of any of your poems, please let me know.

I'm finding the only way to learn poetry reading is to do poetry reading. I guess it's always the way.

Poetry collaboration

I started a thread on Gazebo asking people about poetry collaboration, but it didn't get a lot of interest. I've done a small bit of collaborating, and I find it a very interesting experience.

What are your thoughts on collaborating? Have you ever done it? Ever been interested? Would you want to collaborate only with poets who write very similar things in similar ways, or are you a formalist hoping to collaborate with a Language poet?

Gimme your thoughts, 'cause I need 'em. I can't seem to supply any of my own.

Ho ho ho

I'm trying to come up with Christmas gifts for Steve. It's impossible.

I didn't deliberately wait until now. I've just been so out of it, emotionally, that I hadn't even come up with any ideas until today.

Ho oh no.

Book exchange

I have copies of pseudophakia I'd like to exchange, preferably for a book of yours, but I'm open to other offers--like frankincense and myrrh.

You notice all the "me" in "meme"?

I was tagged with this meme ages ago, but I kept not doing it. Why? Because I'm cantankerous and antisocial!

1. The first poem I remember reading/hearing/reacting to was:

I can't remember any poems from my childhood. Some songs, like "It's raining, it's pouring," but no poems. Poetry was foreign soil. Perhaps the "tiddly pom" rhyme from one of the Pooh Bear stories, "The more it snows, tiddly pom, the more it goes, tiddly pom, the more it goes, tiddly pom, on snowing."


The first poem that struck me with an appreciable emotional impact was:

"High Flight," strangely enough.

2. I was forced to memorize in school:

I never was. I did memorize "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" at one point, but that was for extra credit.


3. I read/don't read poetry because:

I read it because I'm lonely. And when I get done reading, I'm still lonely. There's a line about the definition of insanity being doing the same thing and expecting different results. I keep expecting different results.

Oh, on a more cheerful day I'd say I read it to learn about the world, to creep inside someone else's skin. But I'm not feeling cheerful. I'm being grim.


4. A poem I'm likely to think about when asked about a favorite poem is:

The answer changes all the time, and usually isn't a "classic" in any sense.


5. I write/don't write poetry, but:

I write poetry, but I wonder if I really respect it.


6. My experience with reading poetry differs from my experience with reading other types of literature.

Poetry is hard. Lately, it hasn't felt worth it, but when I'm not feeling so bleak, it's the sort of churning up from the mud that I enjoy. Still, a novel is always easier.

7. I find poetry:

I find it most in broken things.


8. The last time I heard poetry:

This morning. I did some recordings and had to listen to my own, strange voice trickling through the headphones.


9. I think poetry is like:

Weight loss. It takes so much dedication, and once you stop it all disappears.

Do I have cooties or something?

I've sent off a handful of emails in the past couple of days that have been ignored. I sent a request to a fellow poet that has gone unanswered. A post to a messageboard with no replies.

*tap tap* Is this thing on?

Quiz!

Oh, Scavella, how you tempt me with your wicked quizzing ways.

Your Vocabulary Score: A

Congratulations on your multifarious vocabulary! You must be quite an erudite person.

How's Your Vocabulary?

If you shook me, I'd clink

You change incandescent lightbulbs, and the old one jingles like a sleighbell. Burnt out.

Am I burnt out on poetry right now? I fear it. It has happened to me before.

There are times when it just seems not exactly too much work, but the wrong kind of work. As if I'm trying to build a house from a pile of leaf mold. Oh, you might get a house, but it's still rotting.

Ooh, I'm awfully cheery, aren't I?

In a way, it's probably just a version of the Christmas blues. My father died three years ago just before Christmas, and he adored the season. After that, everything in my life felt impermanent. I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Anniversary blog post!

I just realized that I have been blogging for a year.

So many days, so little worth saying!

I shall yap yap yap into the future.

Grumpy and cold

The course I'm taking essentially makes you grovel in order to pass your exams. I hate that. I give myself enough grief without having to wallow in it just to get a grade. Yes, yes, I see that I did something wrong on my homework, but having to say, "Gosh, oh gee, oh golly I sure am a stupid stupid!" doesn't make me learn any better.

Bah. My feet are cold.

On the plus side, I have a treadmill. I was going to buy it for Christmas for Steve, but it's hard to hide a treadmill.

I've used it four times.

He hasn't used it at all.

There is something wrong with this picture.

In cellphone hell

My cell phone has a dying battery, and I'm trying to replace it without having to hock a kidney to afford it. So far, no good. Someone shoot me.

Blog roll call

If you're not on my blog roll and you should be, tell me!

If you are over there and the link is to the wrong blog, outdated, or some other stupidity on my part, tell me that too!

Inspired by Scavella's shuffling off to Wordpress.

I've been Bumbershot!

Just a couple of extremely minor ditties in Bumbershoot, a light verse companion to the brand-spanking new Umbrella.

But Rob MacKenzie is the star of the show. Go ogle him here as well.