The Very Bad Poet

The New Yorker Finally Called...There's A Restraining Order On You!

2011-11-14T21:23:00.000-08:00

Pamela August Russell, author of B is for Bad Poetry
interviews Pamela August Russell, author of B is for Bad Poetry

I was lucky enough to get an interview with myself while I was nude sunbathing by the pool at a very swanky hotel off Sunset Blvd. Other than the hotel guests, security guards and Department of Mental Health staring at me until I finished the interview, I’d say it went pretty well…

Me: What inspired you to write a book of bad poetry?

Me too: I don’t know if ‘inspired’ is the right word. Let’s just say my friends Jack Daniels and Captain Morgan were very helpful.

Me: Do you have a specific writing style?

Me too: Yes, I like to replace all of my vowels with smiley faces and hearts.

Me: How did you come up with the title?

Me too: I read my own writing.

Me: What books have most influenced your life most?

Me too: ‘Plagiarism, A Handbook For Writers’, ‘A Beginners Guide To Mediocrity’ and Maynard Frumps “The Immoral And Unethical Uses Of Language’ were all very helpful.

Me: If you had to choose, which writer(s) would you consider a mentor?

Me too: Dr. Seuss and Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche

Me: Are there any new authors that have grasped your interest?

Me too: There’s a young writer named Dorothy Parker who’s apparently very good. I haven’t read her yet.

Me: What are your current projects?

Me too: I just put a new flush handle on my toilet.

Me: If you had to do it all over again, would you change anything in your book?

Me too: The part with my name on the cover.

Me: Do you recall how your interest in writing originated?

Me too: Who said I was interested?

Me: Can you share a little of your current work with us?

Me too: I’m writing a poem about how pancakes can ruin a relationship.

Me: Is there anything you find particularly challenging in your writing?

Me too: I used to think writing was very difficult. I see now that it’s all in the wrist.

Me: Do you have to travel much concerning your book?

Me too: To and from court hearings.

Me: Do you have anything specific that you want to say to your readers?

Me too: I’m sorry about that last poem but I couldn’t find a word that rhymes with ‘badunkadunk’.

Me: How long did it take you to write it?

Me too: Twelve minutes with a lunch break.

Me: Who is your favorite dead author?

Me too: Dan Brown.

Me: Do you have any advice for other writers?

Me too: If someone offers you a free pole-dancing class, take it. You never know where it will lead.

My new book B is for Bad Poetry out now from Sterling Publishing. The Los Angeles Times says “It may not be Walt Whitman, but Miss Russell’s verses are a whole lot funnier.” I’ll take that as compliment knowing how funny Mr. Whitman was. Especially after a few glasses of Sangria.

April Really Is The Cruelest Month--Your Horoscope As Forecast By Your Ex-Girlfriend

2011-04-05T12:26:00.000-07:00

A hearty HELLO dear reader! There's been a lapse since my last posting but I'm quite sure my diatribe on WRITERS BLOCK in my last blog almost nine years ago should explain everything. If I had more creative gumption I would lie and tell you wild tales of my travels on tour with Charlie Sheen as Goddess #3. Hey, Natalie and Rachel! Miss you! Love you! I'll call you tonight!

But I don't so I won't.

The problem with blogs is that you actually have to write them. 

 Apparently, I prefer to lounge around in my underwear singing Merle Haggard songs and reading my horoscope. 

If there happen to be bon-bons, whipped cream and gin involved, well, it's none of your damn business. All I know is when I came to, I had somehow magically written my own astrological forecasts  for April. 

What any of this has to do with writing or bad poetry I have no idea. Perhaps the planets know. I certainly don't remember...

Note To Self: Call Charlie about bounced paycheck. Probably just an accounting error.

 Your April Horoscope As Forecast By Your Ex-girlfriend

Aries: Several large planets will influence your career this month. Most notably, your mother. Now would be a good time to get your own place like a big boy instead of sitting around drinking Zima and playing video golf all day. With the sun’s passage through your sign, you may want to start thinking about a new job. I mean seriously Jeff, you can’t be a waiter forever.

Gemini: You’re a cerebral sign, dear Gemini, so good luck getting a date this month. Jupiter will most likely enter your house of love and rifle through your underwear drawer. Aligned with Aries, it just means you’re over the hill. Lovely Venus will have you dressing like the Jonah’s Brothers and dancing again but don’t get too excited, everyone thought you looked ridiculous doing the robot. You’re almost thirty, Jeff! Grow up. Summer may highlight family issues so now would be a good time to refill those old Zoloft prescriptions. Especially since your brother Ned’s a sociopath. Oh, and he tried to kiss me when we all went to Miami for spring break. (which I paid for)

Taurus: If anybody loves being on their home turf, Taurus, it’s you. Seriously, it was like living with Howard Hughes. I don’t count going to the Outback Steak House once a month with Deb and Rick as going out either. The sun, Mercury and Venus will pass through your house of personality this year. Honestly, I’d be surprised if they found anything. How I ever dated you is beyond me. My therapist says I was self-medicating at the time so I’m running with that. Mars will be ruling your house of sexuality and desire so I’m guessing you’ll be on the internet quite a bit again. Don’t think I don’t know, Jeff. Guess who pays all the bills?

Cancer: This month, Pluto is holding court in your house of relationships where he’ll stay for years. Just like the herpes you gave me on our third date. Add in Jupiter to your house of long-distance relationships and you’ve got the perfect recipe for travel. But since you hate to fly, once again I’m going to Kauai alone like last year. Mars will be pushing through your house of professional matters so maybe now you can stop sleeping with your boss. If he hasn’t promoted you yet, he isn’t going to. I may be naïve, Jeff but even I know you and Mr. Slater are doing it in his office during lunch breaks. I will miss our shopping sprees though. Oh, and thanks for that cute little peach sweater from T.J. Maxx.

Leo: Mars will be storming through your house of appearance more than usual. Thank god! You were such a schlub when we were together. It was like dating someone who was just in a roadside bombing. It worked for Curt Cobain but you just looked homeless. With Aries in your house of finance maybe now you can afford to buy some new underwear. Leo’s have always been endowed with charm and wit. But not you, Jeff. You could put a busload of school children on a sugar high to sleep. Fortunately, you’re a fire sign and enjoy being alone. Get used to it pal. 

Virgo: Four planets will make their way through your house of love affairs this month. That’s one more than the number of tramps that made their way through our bedroom. Let’s remember, shall we? There was Christina, Jill and Erta. What was she, Dutch? Who the hell is Dutch? Atleast those were the ones I knew about. Dutiful Capricorn will be urging you to settle down this year but you can’t because you like all the drama and attention. It was fine in high school but you’re not on the cheerleading squad anymore, Jeff. Don’t make any plans after March when mighty Jupiter enters your house of desire and steals all your condoms. 

Libra: When Jupiter enters romantic Pisces on April 12th, that’ll be the most foreplay I’ve seen in years. What am I? Chopped liver? We haven’t had sex in six months. Seriously, Jeff, is it because I put on a little weight? I told you I’d pay for the piano movers you had to hire for me to leave the apartment. When Mercury turns direct in May, all your secrets will come spilling out. I spoke to your therapist and he thinks it’s because you’re mother had that affair with your Uncle Frank. You didn’t know? Well, now you do. Have no fear, dear Libra, your loved ones will continue to disappoint you for years to come!

Scorpio: Lucky you, Scorpio! This month the stars gift-giver, Jupiter, will bring you plenty of admirers! Even ones you don’t want. I’ll be conspiring with the solar eclipse to sneak into your house and hide in your closet until you get home from work. Armed with the magnetism of Mercury, I’ll be sniffing your shirts and sleeping in your bed while you’re out on a date with that blonde bimbo you’ve been seeing. Venus will enter your house of secrets and steal your birth certificate so she can make your life a living hell. Oh, and don’t think a restraining order is going to keep me away this time. I still have keys to the shed.

Sagittarius: You’re famous for being chatty, dear Sagittarius. Even with four planets in your house of communications I still can’t get you to tell me what you want in your damn omelette let alone get you to say you love me. It’s like living with Helen Keller. Even she figured out a way to communicate! Sadly, Jupiter will be dancing around your house of communications all year. So if you’re smart, you’ll turn down the music because you and I need to talk, Jeff. I need more. I can’t be the only one doing all the emotional work in this relationship. Luckily, helpful Saturn has a color chart ready to go! Red for  ‘I don’t know’, blue for ‘I’m hungry’ and green for ‘more beer please’.  How easy is that dear Sagittarius?

Capricorn: This year I’m counting on all those Capricorn qualities: duty, respectability, responsibility, and, most important, the determination to keep every promise you make. Except when it comes to having children. Apparently, you just flat out lied about that one. I believe the words ‘I Love Kids!’ were even uttered during our first love-making session. Thank goodness balance-loving Libra will tiptoe through your house of relationships this year. She better tiptoe, sweet Capricorn! If she so much as looks at me the wrong way, I swear I’m going right back to Kent who still loves me and doesn’t lie about really important crap like that. The moon in Gemini will make you gassy as well.

Aquarius: This will be quite an interesting month for you, Aquarius!  Especially in the emotions department. Seriously, I talked to your sister and we both think you have adult ADD. It would be great if you went to see Dr. Clark. I just hate coming home and seeing such a mess. And by 'mess' I mean you, Jeff. How does anyone end up with so much magic marker on them? Hopefully, several planetary allies, especially Uranus and some St. Johns Wort will help with monetary gains since I’m tired of paying for everything because you can’t keep a job. When Venus goes retrograde in March, I’m going to stay with my Aunt Liz for a few weeks. Hopefully by then, you’ll have figured out how the dishwasher works.

Pisces: Saturn, the planet of friendship will play a special role this month dear Pisces. Namely, eating me out of house and home and sleeping on my new carpets. Fat Eddie is especially a problem. I think you know why. The man is like a scene out of a Monty Python sketch. I’ll never get those stains out! Benevolent Jupiter is going to ride your ass until you figure out that you’re a big boy now. You want to drink until the cows come home? Go sleep in the friggin’ barn! Sensitive Virgo would like to get a good night’s sleep before her parents show up this weekend! When Mercury goes retrograde on the 29th, I’ll be in Seattle with Kent having the time of my life. Happy fucking April, Jeff.
  

Writer's Block: A delightful romp down your own private hell hole!

2010-12-18T16:11:00.000-08:00

"And there was that poor sucker Flaubert rolling around on his floor for three days looking for the right word." — Dorothy Parker

I was sitting on the toilet the other day sobbing uncontrollably when it hit me, I’ve got a terrible case of constipation and an even worse case of writer’s block. Not that they go hand in hand but I’m pretty sure a three year old could put the two together. 

Welcome to every writer’s worst nightmare...Writer's block! I’ll be your hostess. 

A Reticulo-Frontal Disconnection Syndrome, better known as writer’s block, has been the bane of every writer’s existence (with the exception of Stephen ‘that prolific bastard' King, and William ‘try to keep up’ Shakespeare) since the dawn of the literary landscape. 

When the literary landscape packed up and moved to Paris, Gertrude Stein held a few salons and told everyone, "To write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write is to write." This was right after she also said, "Alice, these brownies you baked are making me feel all goobly-doobly inside and you're starting to look like a roast chicken." 

Let's not forget her almost obsessive use of repetition that made forming a paragraph look like eating cotton candy. Let's not forget her almost obsessive use of repetition that made forming a paragraph look like eating cotton candy.  Let's not forget her almost obsessive use of repetition that made forming a paragraph look like eating cotton candy. Let's not forget her almost obsessive use of repetition that made forming a paragraph look like eating cotton candy. See? Now doesn't that look like I've got something to say?

Easy for Gertrude, she had the surrealists on her side (or on her head, they were surrealists after all) For the rest of us, writing can be a vortex of fear and self loathing that sucks the soul into a carnivorous black hole and devours it like a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Unfortunately, it’s never going to be finger lickin’ good. It's more than likely going to taste like regret and shame covered in whipped cream.

 Unlike herpes or syphilis, there isn't a lab test to confirm these wayward symptoms. So as blocked writers it’s hard to know if a) maybe you’re just gassy b) you’ve lost your narrative, whatever that is c) you’re hungover again or d) you’re having a complete and utter existential breakdown from which you’ll mostly likely never recover and will live out your sad, pathetic days with electrodes strapped to your head. 

There are many theories about writer’s block. But they all boil down to one crazy crockpot of truth: To have writer’s block one must believe that what they’ve written or are going to write in the future will be and mostly likely is a steaming pile of shit.

After all, who gave us the right to play God? Creating worlds that don't exist, creating people that don't exist. It's a cryin' shame we didn't end up in the  math or science department. Those lucky bastards know there’s only one right answer for everything. Theoretically, they deal in absolutes. How quaint. With writing, the only absolute is the blank page in front of you. Taunting you. Mocking you. Daring you. Holding a misshapen gun to your head and asking...

Do you feel lucky, punk? Well, do ya?

If you were terrible at algebra you certainly wouldn't go major in it at college then cross your fingers and hope to heck you get better at it. They'd toss you out faster than you can say Integer? I don't even know her! Yet that's exactly what writer's do. The science of writing tells us this: Every writer has to write badly at some point. That means you, Mr. Faulkner. You too, Mr. Steinbeck and Mr. Hemingway. Don’t think for a moment there’s not a treasure trove of unpublished and embarrassing works written by these beloved  scribes,  hidden away in locked boxes in dusty attics that only some poor editor knows about. They've gone to bed every night terrorized by the same overwhelming thought; “Sweet Jesus, if there is a god, please don’t let anyone find this crap until I’m dead and buried.”

Usually after a weekend bender with a gaggle of sorority girls and a series of hideously demeaning jobs, there's a Susan Hayward moment of ambition, hope and bravado where you scream out yes! Yes! YES! I want to write goddammit!

I couldn’t be more proud of you. Now eat your pills.

So here’s  how this the delightful catch-22 works. Let’s say you’ve decided that what you have to say might actually be of some minor importance, so you start writing. But the stuff you write in the beginning may not be very good and you may not want to show it to anyone. It may even be downright embarrassing. This in turn, can cause you to think you’re not a very good writer. 

But you can only get better as a writer by writing. So you write more. Not bad, your friends say. You have a way with language. You understand it, words have learned to dance for you. Your creative writing teachers all say you show 'great promise'. And you do! But that last short story was…(insert terror and insecurity here) the next thing you know, you’ve got a nasty case of writer’s block from which there's no known cure except booze and pills and sex with strangers.  

Take heart if you still have one, even the best writer’s come face to face with this demonic literary fiend. Fran Lebowitz has had a  20 year case of writer’s block she now lovingly refers to as ‘writer’s blockade.’ She’s more than made up for it by being one of the most quotable women in the last few decades so don’t go breathing normally just yet. The rest of us are just going to have to deal with it by drinking ourselves silly like every other writer worth their weight in black ink.

Here’s a little pop quiz to see if you've got your average run-of-the-mill anxiety that plagues most people on the planet including your accountant and hairdresser or full blown writer's block...

 

1. You find yourself looking up 'female escorts’ as soon as you sit down to write. 

2. You find yourself using the term ‘circling the drain’ a lot.

3. You hang at your local coffeeshop to write and have nothing to show for it except an extra 43 pounds from all the cinnamon buns you felt obligated to eat.

4. You used to think ‘staring off into space’ was part of the creative process. Now you’re sure it’s the first sign of insanity.

5. You thought getting back to basics would help get the creative juices flowing. You’ve spent the last 7 years on a Haiku about bunions.

6. Every time you sit down to write your novel, you come up with several amazing ideas for a new reality TV show.

7. You can’t sit down to write knowing the cat box hasn’t been changed all day. 

8. You don’t own a cat.

9. You suddenly find your roommate, a dour legal assistant who’s still a virgin, endlessly fascinating.

10. You find it difficult to write unless you’ve been backlit.

If you answered yes to more than four, congratulations! You've not only wasted oodles of precious writing time reading this blog, there's a  good chance you've never be in a relationship with another human being or you're being restrained by a nurse.

I wish you well as you stare down the abyss of an empty page.  As my favorite short story writer once said, "At times like these, it's probably a good idea to carry a small hand puppet." 

I'm sewing button eyes on an old pair of tube socks as we speak.  

"I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done." — Steven Wright

"There are three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are." 
— W. Somerset Maugham

"I am at this moment writing a lengthy indictment against our century. When my brain begins to reel from my literary labors, I make an occasional cheese dip." 
— John Kennedy Toole (A Confederacy of Dunces) 

You're No Elizabeth Gilbert But We Still Like You (Just Not As Much)

2010-09-13T11:07:00.000-07:00

If you're ever lucky enough to get a publishing deal, it may seem like a dream come true. All those years of toiling away in obscurity, the existential self doubt, the excessive drinking, the loans from your sister, your father, your mother, your Aunt Ruth, the anti-depressants, the friends who thought you'd end up homeless and the nagging feeling that perhaps you should have taken more math classes in college, are all magically washed away by three little words... 

We

love

it.

But once all of the excitement and delusions of grandeur subside, you quickly realize not only do you actually have to write the darn book, you have to promote it too!

Is that a dingo on my hood?

Unless your book has more of a buzz than Mel Gibson at 2:00am on a Saturday night,  chances are it's all up to you. Sure, most publishing houses have a publicity department. But they're usually understaffed and overwhelmed and too busy promoting their high profile authors who actually stand a chance of bringing in some real $$$. 

I'm rich. You're not!

 If you're a first time writer, you'll probably never see a copper penny for all your golden efforts. That lovely advance they gave you won't even begin to cover what it cost to print your soon to be National Book Award recipient. There's a one in a million chance you'll get lucky. Did we learn nothing from Elizabeth Gilbert? (See smug side pic) I'm not saying you can't write, I'm just saying the only way people know you've been published is with a book tour. A book tour says, hey, you! I spent a lot of time writing this when I could have been ballroom dancing so sit down and listen! But sadly, it takes an awful lot of money, time and effort to set up a book tour. And money is always the operative word. If you're like me, your 'tour' extends to bookstores within a fifty mile radius of where you live. This includes barns, livingrooms, bars and birthday parties. Hey, don't knock it.  Anywhere there's a group of people gathered is a chance for a rapt audience. Or a hostage situation. It depends on how interesting you are.

I wanted a Pulitzer not a stupid cake!

I learned the hard way that it's always best to let the birthday girl blow out her candles first before launching into a poem about Hitler's favorite mistress. The point is, there are flyers to be made, phone calls to cranky bookstore managers, books to be mailed out to bloggers & critics, books you have to buy from your publisher to mail out to bloggers & critics, more phone calls, getting your reading listed in the local paper and countless emails to friends begging them to show up at your reading or you're no longer friends. Try it, it works. 

It's a very simple equation really. So let's summarize:

To sell your book, people first have to hear about it. Unless you walk around with a bullhorn and a wheelbarrow full of your wares, readings and good reviews are still the most civilized way to boost sales. You could hand them out for free but that would defeat the purpose. And the purpose is to get people to read your book.
Oh. wait.
Anywhoodles, your publisher wouldn't like that. At the end of the day it's all about sales.

So slap on a smile, zip up your pants and spray on the glitter and charm. It's showtime people!

As for me, I'll be pole dancing--er, reading at:                                

STORIES BOOKSTORE presents:

An Evening Of Bad Poetry on Thursday, September 23rd, 7:30pm 

1716 Sunset Blvd. Los Angeles, CA 90026

Next to the Echo Park Time Travel Mart

This is open to all so bring your own silly scribbles and ridiculous sonnets to read!

http://www.storiesla.com/

http://guerrillareads.com/ presents B Is For Bad Poetry Guerrilla Reading at

The West Hollywood Book Fair - Sunday, September 26th at 2:20pm

647 N. San Vicente Blvd.

West Hollywood, CA 

Since this is a guerrilla reading, I'm not sure quite where I'll be.

Who knows?  I could pop out of a cake.

I'll be at booth #E40 prior signing books

http://www.westhollywoodbookfair.org/

The Cobalt Cafe 

22047 Sherman Way

Canoga Park, CA  on Tuesday, December 14th at 9:00pm

http://poetrysuperhighway.com/cobalt/calendar.html

"There's no money in poetry, but then there's no poetry in money either." - Robert Graves

Emily Dickinson Does Children’s Birthday Parties (and more outrageous gossip about your favorite poets)

2010-08-11T16:36:00.000-07:00

We live in a TMZ’d tabloid world. Not only do I know everyone Jennifer Aniston’s slept with, but I know on a scale of one to ten if she actually enjoyed it. I know that Mel Gibson had no idea his wife had breast implants, that Lindsey Lohan can’t figure out when a relationship has ended and I’ve seen Britney Spears' naughty bits up close and so many other things that have scorched my retina for life.

Other than a few suicides here and there, some minor drinking problems and a few trips to the nuthouse, poets so far have flown under the radar when it comes to their personal lives. I have yet to see W.S. Merwin on the cover of US Weekly for wrecking his car on the PCH or Margaret Atwood’s panty lines being mocked on the pages of Star Magazine. Well, it’s my duty and honor to change all that.

For better or worse, poets deserve the same spotlight as everyone else. Like paparazzi in search of Brad and Angie on a rickety boat off the South of France, I’ve dug up a few tidbits you might not have known about some of your favorite poets. For instance, did you know...

In 1969 during a conversation with her publisher, Maya Angelou admitted she couldn’t be absolutely sure why the caged bird sings, but thought it might be the new organic birdseed she had recently purchased.

In 1922 Robert Frost took the road less traveled and got lost.

Literally.

The Shaftsbury Vermont fire department spent twelve grueling hours searching for him. They eventually found him at Mrs. Hannah Whimmersby’s place about two miles away. She had plied him with warm whisky and a ham bone. The fire chief also noted her hair was unkempt and her skirt was unzipped.

Dorothy Parker may have been the wit of The Algonquin Roundtable but she rarely laughed. Except once when Robert Benchley asked her if she wanted to go make-out in the mens room. She laughed for several hours to which Mr. Benchley quipped “Seriously Dot, it wasn’t that funny.”

Frank O’Hara was said to have written ‘Lunch Poems’ during his lunch break while working at The Museum Of Modern Art. But according to Vlad Kippling, a hot dog vendor he frequented daily, they were much closer to dinner time poems.

Along with ‘Leaves Of Grass’, Walt Whitman also wrote several Motown hits for Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell.

Robert Lowell had three legs, one of which was wooden. His daughter Amy said the third one was mostly for show.

ee cummings and A.A. Milne once refused to do a reading together.

T.S. Elliot’s original title for ‘The Waste Land’ was ‘People Aren’t Very Nice And We’re All Going To Die Soon So Don’t Bother Going To Church And Drink Up!”

Charles Bukowski toured the Midwest as an alto-soprano in a barber shop quartet called The Sing-a-lings.

Edgar Allan Poe slept with a night-light on. For obvious reasons.

Emily Dickinson enjoyed entertaining at children’s birthday parties. She was known for her realistic duck impersonations and a ventriloquist act with her dog Carlo whom she made appear to be reading her poems.

Sylvia Plath was voted both class clown and most flexible in her high school yearbook.

William Wadsworth Longfellow was actually only about five feet two inches.

In 1908 Vladimir Mayakovsky wrote a series of poems about jello while in prison. Most of them went unpublished except for “Jiggly, Jiggly, Jiggly, I’m In Hell” which was published in 1923.

Allen Ginsberg had a huge crush on Jack Kerouac. Jack Kerouac had a massive crush on Neal Cassady. William Burroughs had a huge crush on Ginsberg…wait, that’s all true.

Personally, I’ve always stuck to the old adage, ‘don’t do anything you can’t explain to the paramedics when they arrive.’ So far it’s served me well.

So far.

They’ll be here any minute.

How to write BAD POETRY in 19 easy steps!

2010-06-18T11:50:00.000-07:00

You’re probably wondering why bad poetry?
More likely, you’re wondering why the words bad and poetry have seeped into your life like the stench from a broken septic tank.
I’m not one for divulging anything personal but I thought you should know…

I’m just in it for the money.

It’s a little known and closely guarded secret in the literary community that writing poetry can be wildly lucrative. Forget all those visions of Rimbaud and Verlaine living in abject poverty while strung out on absinthe and hashish. The truth is, most poets live more like Joan and Jackie Collins. Complete with man-servants ready to shave off their bunions and whip up a dry martini at 7:00am. Not to mention the liposuction and tantrums.

As a matter of fact, I’ve got my very own Swedish masseuse named Ingadolde sitting on me right now.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
The sad truth is bad poetry doesn’t just write itself.
Although in the case of Jewel, I may be at a loss here. Seriously.

http://www.smoe.org/lists/jewel/angels/poetry.html#SaveTheLinoleum

Anyway, much like sculpting your first hideously deformed clay ashtray for father’s day in the third grade, bad poetry requires something that looks similar to talent, focus and attention--but isn’t. In fact you don’t actually have to be creative at all or even remotely interesting. Being gassy or drunk can give you the same feeling as well as the same results. And for less than half what you’d pay at a regular poetry store! So if you’re ready to become rich and famous and impossible to be around, then here are a few guidelines that have helped me on my way to fame and fortune in the world of incredibly suspect verse.

1. Iambic Pentameter can go f%#@ itself

2. Always use clunky words you don’t really know (e.g. incorrigible & verisimilitude)

3. Try to fit a knock-knock joke in whenever possible

4. If you must Haiku, please clean up after yourself

5. Irony isn’t dead but it has been hit on the head with a frying pan

6. Inappropriate rhyming will always save you (e.g. moose and Jews)

7. The good news is no one else knows what e.g. stands for either

8. If you run into writer's block, try writing in a foreign language you don’t speak. It's de rigueur

9. If you write a ‘concrete’ poem, try to use actual concrete or cement

10. If you accidentally use ‘alliteration’ simply type the letter A for the duration of the poem. This gives it much more meaning.

11. Contrary to popular belief, people really do want to know what you had for breakfast as long as it’s in verse form

12. If you’re worried about meaning in your poem, don’t. We’ll all be dead soon enough

13. When making a ‘list’ poem, be sure add toilet paper to it. No one likes to drip dry or use your clean hand towels next to the sink

14. Poems to imaginary childhood friends will most likely win you a Pulitzer

15. Don’t worry about your ‘audience’. They don’t give a crap about you either

16. The best poems are the ones you plagiarize (see previous blog entry)

17. It helps if you were dropped on your head as a child

18. Things you should know as a poet: Along with Leaves Of Grass, Walt Whitman also wrote several Motown hits for Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell

19. If you've been looking for your ‘voice’ as a poet and can't find it, there’s a good chance someone stole it on purpose

I do hope this helps.

And always remember, when the writing gets tough…
the tough fall apart and go crying to their therapist.

Plagiarism! The Fast And Easy Way To Write Poetry.

2010-05-20T00:26:00.000-07:00

Things to do today:

-Pick up cat litter/toothpaste

-Return library books/More Jackie Collins!

- Try encapsulating beauty and passion in measure and elevate it to some kind of truth recognized by the subconscious as emotional sentiment distilled into words.

- Shoot myself out of a cannon in the backyard.

Seriously. It’s much easier than trying to write poetry.

Anything’s easier than writing poetry. Go ahead, put crowns on ALL of my teeth! What’s that, a giant bee hive? What are you waiting for? Let’em out! I’ll just stand here in my bikini. Up until now, writing poetry has been a lonely, angst –ridden affair full of self-loathing, doubt, terrible hangovers and an odd smell coming from one of the sofa cushions. Not anymore!

Now there’s a fast, fun and easy way to find your voice and empty your subconscious onto a blank piece of paper and it's called...

Plagiarism!

Poets have toiled away for centuries trying to find the perfect way to express the mysteries of the mind, the complexity of emotions, oh heck! a reason for the whole darn universe. Some of them have even died trying while everyone else was out playing volleyball. Now it’s time to sit back, relax and let your forebearers do all the work for you. No need to ruin relationships, drink yourself silly or hide from the IRS for the sake of art anymore. Plagiarism is the simplest way to write poetry, novels, short stories and even letters to the editor.

No need to get stuck in the agony of creativity anymore!
No more insurmountable moments of distorted self-consciousness. No more elements of wonder and engagement with time. No more sifting through memory for lost moments that need to be expressed. No more dictionaries and thesauruses to make a fool of you. Most of all, no more critics! This is foolproof writing at its best. Every line, every word has already been perfectly chosen courtesy of someone else’s blood, sweat and tears! It’s so easy, even a very bad poet can do it. Here’s a little something I whipped up in less than 30 seconds!

The Lonely Bliss Of Falling In Love With A Poem

It's all I have to bring today

This, and my heart beside

This, and my heart, and all the fields

so I went to the worst of bars hoping

to get killed but all I could do

was to get drunk again.

It is always a matter, my darling,

Of life or death, as I had forgotten

I wish what I wished you before,

but harder. I have been to lots of parties

and acted perfectly disgraceful

but I never actually collapsed

oh Lana Turner we love you get up

because the birthday of my life is come

my love is come to me. You look up

at the world & go: oh and it set you going

like a fat gold watch.

the midwife slapped your footsoles

and your bald cry took its place

among the elements of the scenes

our dreams have painted and when you're advised

what they symbolized we'll begin to feel

acquainted. Each night now I tie

ten dollars and your car key to my thigh.

See?

Easy breazy.

Emily Dickinson, Charles Bukowski, Robert Lowell, Frank O’Hara, Richard Wilbur, Sylvia Plath, Christina Rossetti, Eileen Myles and Dorothy Parker will NEVER know the difference. So have fun! And may all your literary dreams come true in less than an hour.

I'd stay away from Rod McKuen though.
Apparently he ‘s on to us.

Could You Help Me Out? I'm Just A Few Clowns Short Of A Circus

2010-03-13T12:16:00.000-08:00

Writing is a lonely business. Lonelier than a port-o-potty cleaner at a truckstop in Nome, Alaska. It can suck you into a vortex of self-loathing that has you asking friends, "should I go on anti-depressants?"

The answer is yes, Susan. I suggest starting with 125 milligrams.

The days will seem lighter, the sun warmer, friends kinder, the world gentler. Your writing will flow like a Caribbean waterfall. Then, just like a bad acid trip, you'll begin to realize it still requires something akin to a plot, talent, hard work and sadly, structure. Goddamned-sonofabitch structure. And before you can say Brett Easton-Ellis, you'll be back to square one. That's why it might be best to give up those inane literary pursuits and consider going to...

Clown College!

What better way to express the overwhelming creativity and joie de vivre that most writers have smoldering within us? Instead of clever, thinly veiled stories about your friends drinking problems and unexpected miscarriages, you can say what's on your mind with brightly colored balloon animals and ridiculously vague and inappropriate hand gestures. Not to mention a perfectly painted on smile that says, "I don't know where the hell I am, but I sure am having fun!"

Instead of inept reviews from random bloggers who thought the 'Twilight' series gave literature the boost it sorely needed, you'll get rave reviews from small children who, although frightened at first by the bad make-up and the smell of gin on your breath, will come to adore you, clinging to your leg like they're in the cereal isle at the Piggly-Wiggly, while begging their parents if 'Scott The Clown' can please! please! come and live with them.

And for a thin, brief moment, this actually sounds like a good idea.

What the heck? It's not like you have a relationship weighing you down. Turns out you're too 'moody' and no one really gets you. You haven't paid your rent in three months anyway. I'm sure your landlord will gladly help you pack up your meager belongings (which consist of a ping-pong table and a copy of Faulkner's 'As I Lay Dying' you never actually read) and give you cab fare just to be sure you're on your merry way.

All I'm saying is, writing is hard. Clowning is fun. From now on, I'm choosing fun. Why should I spend my precious time agonizing over character development or a more mellifluous way to describe what's in my protagonists closet when I can learn how to juggle cantaloupe and the fine art of pulling string out of my nose. Not to mention the shoes!

Oh, what I wouldn't give to show up at my publishers office in those shoes to say fine, maybe Sophie's Choice as science fiction won't work, but who cares! I have a new life now. Sure, I'll still be tripping, falling and bumping into walls just like you said, but this time it's on my terms.

And I'll be getting paid.

For once.

http://www.ohiocollegeclowningarts.com/curriculum.html

"Writers are a little below clowns and a little above trained seals." -John Steinbeck

Slang-Whangers In A Sonofabitch Stew

2010-02-19T16:37:00.000-08:00

One of the fun things about writing is research or more precisely "research". Thinly disguised as the things I simply MUST know about my characters that can keep me 'barkin' at a knot' for hours. More importantly, wasting time is a joy when you're on a deadline. For instance, a character, although she lives in the present time and grew up in New York, enjoys speaking in old west slang. And who doesn't? Oh, the hours of fun finding ridiculous slang for her to spew into dialogue for no apparent reason. Here are a few gems you might enjoy:

A Hog-Killin' Time - A real good time. "We went to the Rodeo Dance and had us a hog-killin' time."

Airin' the Paunch - Vomit, throw-up, regurgitate. He's "airing the paunch" after a heavy bout of drinking.

Barkin' at a knot - Doing something useless; wasting your time, trying something impossible.

Blacksmithing - Pimping for a prostitute.

Buckle Bunnies - Female groupies who follow and befriend rodeo riders.

Excuse-me-ma'am - A bump in the road.

Family Disturbance - Whiskey

Lunger - Slang for someone with tuberculosis.

Hot as a Whorehouse on Nickel Night - Damned hot.

Shoot the Crow - Obtain a drink in a saloon and leave without paying.

Shove the queer - To pass counterfeit money.

Sossle Or Sozzle - A lazy or sluttish woman.

Sugar – Kiss or loving. "Honey, come over here and give your grandma some sugar."

I've been using them in a sentence ever since and having more fun than a soft horse in a teapot! (A horse with lots of energy at a train station) Sure, I may be 'all down but nine' but atleast I can 'acknowledge the corn'.

Word to your mother.

Turns out I'm autodidactic. But don't worry, my doctor says it'll pass.

2010-01-24T17:00:00.000-08:00

Back before radio and TV, poetry really was for the masses. Just ask my grandmother and Mark Twain. Back when you only had two choices for entertainment--you could have a staring contest with Myrtle the cow or you could read a book. Nowadays, you read a little Emily Dickinson in College, take a test and get on with your life. Poetry went the way of CB Radios which I miss terribly, good buddy.

In 10th grade I discovered 'THE COLLECTED POEMS OF E.E. CUMMINGS'. I was in heaven.
Who was this strange man with his surreal poems. It changed everything for me.
A new way of thinking. A new frame. A new house to live in. Metaphorically of course, Susan.
From there it was just a hop, skip and a joy to find Eliot, Pound, H.D., Ford, Stein, Lowell, Plath, Sexton, Rimbaud, Valery, Breton...the list goes on and on and on and on.
I may have written a book of 'Bad Poetry' indeed. But the good stuff is what brought me to it.
You can't deconstruct what isn't there. Or can you?
Here are some of my favorites I stopped and had a few drinks with along the way...

The Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
by ee cummings

the Cambridge ladies who live in furnished souls
are unbeautiful and have comfortable minds
(also, with the church's protestant blessings
daughters, unscented shapeless spirited)
they believe in Christ and Longfellow,both dead,
are invariably interested in so many things-
at the present writing one still finds
delighted fingers knitting for the is it Poles?
perhaps. While permanent faces coyly bandy
scandal of Mrs. N and Professor D
....the Cambridge ladies do not care,above
Cambridge if sometimes in its box of
sky lavender and cornerless, the
moon rattles like a fragment of angry candy

Mad Girl’s Love Song
By Sylvia Plath

"I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead;
I lift my lids and all is born again.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,
And arbitrary blackness gallops in:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed
And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

God topples from the sky, hell's fires fade:
Exit seraphim and Satan's men:
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.

I fancied you'd return the way you said,

But I grow old and I forget your name.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead;
At least when spring comes they roar back again.
I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead.
(I think I made you up inside my head.)"

Recipe For Happiness Khaborovsk Or Anyplace
By Lawrence Ferlinghetti

One grand boulevard with trees

one grand cafe in the sun

with strong black coffee in very small cups.

One not necessarily very beautiful
man or woman who loves you.

One fine day

Love Poem
By Louise Glück

There is always something to be made of pain.
Your mother knits.
She turns out scarves in every shade of red.
They were for Christmas, and they kept you warm
while she married over and over, taking you
along. How could it work,
when all those years she stored her
widowed heart as though the dead come back.
No wonder you are the way you are,
afraid of blood, your women
like one brick wall after another.

A Drinking Song

By William Butler Yeats

Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That's all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.

Love Calls Us To The Things Of This World

by Richard Wilbur

The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded
soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and
simple
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with
angels.

Some are in bed-sheets, some are
in blouses,

Some are in smocks: but truly there
they are.
Now they are rising together in calm
swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they
wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal
breathing;

Now they are flying in place,
conveying
The terrible speed of their
omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now
of a sudden
They swoon down in so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks

From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every
blessed day,
And cries,
"Oh, let there be nothing on
earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising
steam
And clear dances done in the sight of
heaven."

Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world's hunks
and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter
love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns
and rises,

"Bring them down from their ruddy
gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs
of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be
undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure
floating
Of dark habits,
keeping their difficult
balance."

Real Life
by Lucie Brock-Broido

Soon the electrical wires will grow heavy under the snow.
I am thinking of fire of the possibility of fire & then moving

Across America in a car with a powder blue dashboard,
Moving to country music & the heart

Is torn a little more because the song says the truth.
Because in the thirty-six things that can happen

To people, men & women, women & women,
Men & men, in all these things the soul is bound

To be broken somewhere along the line,
That clove-scented, air-colored wanderer blushing

With no memory, no inkling & then proceeds
Across America

In the sap green of the tropics,
Toward the cadmium of a bitter sunrise to a new age,

At the white impossible ice hour, starving,
Past the electric blue of the rivers melting down,

Above the nude, snuff, terra cotta, maybe fire,
Over the tiny fragile mound of finger bones

Of an Indian who died standing up,
Through the heliotrope of a song about the sunset,

To live the thirty-six things & never comes home.

Carson McCullers

By Charles Bukowski

she died of alcoholism
wrapped in a blanket
on a deck chair
on an ocean
steamer.

all her books of
terrified loneliness

all her books about
the cruelty
of loveless love

were all that was left
of her

as the strolling vacationer
discovered her body

notified the captain

                                                                               and she was quickly dispatched
                                                               to somewhere else
                                                                               on the ship

                                                                               as everything
                                                                               continued just
                                                                               as
                                                                              she had written it

Lines For The Fortune Cookies By Frank O’Hara

I think you're wonderful and so does everyone else.

Just as Jackie Kennedy has a baby boy, so will you--even bigger.

You will meet a tall beautiful blonde stranger, and you will not say hello.

You will take a long trip and you will be very happy, though alone.

You will marry the first person who tells you your eyes are like scrambled eggs.

In the beginning there was YOU--there will always be YOU, I guess.

You will write a great play and it will run for three performances.

Please phone The Village Voice immediately: they want to interview you.

Roger L. Stevens and Kermit Bloomgarden have their eyes on you.

Relax a little; one of your most celebrated nervous tics will be your undoing.

Your first volume of poetry will be published as soon as you finish it.

You may be a hit uptown, but downtown you're legendary!

Your walk has a musical quality which will bring you fame and fortune.

You will eat cake

Who do you think you are, anyway? Jo Van Fleet?

You think your life is like Pirandello, but it's really like O'Neill.

A few dance lessons with James Waring and who knows? Maybe something will happen.

That's not a run in your stocking, it's a hand on your leg.

I realize you've lived in France, but that doesn't mean you know EVERYTHING!

You should wear white more often--it becomes you.

The next person to speak to you will have a very intriquing proposal to make.

A lot of people in this room wish they were you.

Have you been to Mike Goldberg's show? Al Leslie's? Lee Krasner's?

At times, your disinterestedness may seem insincere, to strangers.

Now that the election's over, what are you going to do with yourself?

You are a prisoner in a croissant factory and you love it.

You eat meat. Why do you eat meat?

Beyond the horizon there is a vale of gloom.

You too could be Premier of France, if only ... if only...

America
By Gertrude Stein

Once in English they said America. Was it English to them.
Once they said Belgian.
We like a fog.
Do you for weather.
Are we brave.
Are we true.
Have we the national colour.
Can we stand ditches.
Can we mean well.
Do we talk together.
Have we red cross.
A great many people speak of feet.
And socks.

One Art by Elizabeth Bishop

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

--Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

My Dream By Ogden Nash

This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it

This World is not Conclusion.
by Emily Dickinson

This World is not Conclusion.
A Species stands beyond --
Invisible, as Music --
But positive, as Sound --
It beckons, and it baffles --
Philosophy -- don't know --
And through a Riddle, at the last --
Sagacity, must go --
To guess it, puzzles scholars --
To gain it, Men have borne
Contempt of Generations
And Crucifixion, shown --
Faith slips -- and laughs, and rallies --
Blushes, if any see --
Plucks at a twig of Evidence --
And asks a Vane, the way --
Much Gesture, from the Pulpit Strong Hallelujahs roll --

Narcotics cannot still the Too

That nibbles at the soul --

Plato, Aristotle & That Girl Who Writes Bad Poetry...

2009-12-29T15:29:00.000-08:00

I like philosophy. Not as much as dentistry, but close. All that thinking. All those theories. All those notions about who the hell we are and why we do what we do. Endless questions with unknowable answers. It's like trying to put in an order at a McDonald's drive-thru.

Like bad poetry you say? Yes, Susan. Like bad poetry.
All those old men trying to make sense of reason, morals, knowledge and sometimes beauty while drinking absinthe. Lots of absinthe! Apparently it helps take the edge off. It does for me. My favorite philosophers were a branch of Sophist's who believed that nothing exists and if it did exist, it wasn't real. Ouch. Did anyone bother getting out of bed in ancient Greece? Anywhoodles, a few more bad poems so the day doesn't seem like a vortex of sin and degradation that sucks your soul out into a void off nothingness. Or...kittens sitting on a rainbow eating cotton candy. Your choice, of course.

Emanuelle Kant

Emanuelle Kant but
he probably could have
since it was entirely possible
at the time.

Neitzsche And The Ice-Cream Truck

God is dead.
But this atomic
berry blast popsicle
is heavenly.

Critical Thinking (Of You)

X equals my uptight girlfriend
Y equals fun-loving you
If X equals another day with that wing-nut
Y are we not having sex right now?

Let's Go A-Caroling! On Second Thought, Let's Drink Grain Alcohol Instead!

2009-12-22T13:24:00.000-08:00

Since the holidays are still pointing and laughing at us from on top of our Christmas trees and nuns are out in the cold smoking cigarettes and getting ready for Jesus's big birthday party, (Shhh, it's a surprise this year!) I'm guessing there are strange relatives coming in and out of your bathroom doing lord knows what and Uncle Stan is hovering over you as you read this with whisky on his breath asking, "you got any porn on that thing?"

Now might be a good time for a little bad poetry. After all it does say THE VERY BAD POET up there on the marquee. Time to put my money where my mouth is. Although last time I did, I ended up in a womens correctional facility with a delightful bunkmate named 'Carla' who flushed my shoes down the toilet while I was sleeping. She also got great joy out of kicking me in the shins. We eventually became BFF's after I gave her all of my clean underwear and became very good at her favorite game 'Where did Carla hide her teeth?'

I should send her a Christmas card.

Anywhoodles, here are a few bad poems from B IS FOR BAD POETRY to warm your cockles. If they get too warm, you should probably see a doctor.

Nietzsche And The Ice-Cream Truck
God is dead.
But this atomic
berry blast Popsicle
is heavenly.

A Brief History Of Feminism
Sally sells seashells
by the seashore
as if people didn't know
you could just
go to the beach
and find them yourself.

Unfortunate Cookie
You will soon meet someone
who will bring you much joy and love.

Eventually they will devour your soul
like it's a hot dog eating championship.

Motto
When one door closes
another door opens
onto a cliff.

How To Reprimand a Cynical Optimist
You can have your cake
and eat it too
but don't let me catch you
five minutes later
in the bathroom
with your finger
down your throat.

From B IS FOR BAD POETRY 2009 By Pamela August Russell
Publisher: Sterling
ISBN: 1-4027-6787-0
ISBN13: 9781402767876
$9.95 US
Hardcover with Jacket (not fur)

Yo-Ho-Ho And A Bottle of Irony!

2009-12-10T13:32:00.000-08:00

A famous writer I know once told me a story about another, even more famous writer she had gone to visit. When she arrived, the more famous writer was sitting in a chair looking out the window towards the gray Canadian mountains and said, "Irony. It's all we have left."
I couldn't agree more. Then again, it was Canada.

Some critics have even said that irony has been the death of American literature. I'm sure Faulkner and Steinbeck would agree, Sedaris and Heller would not. Clearly, it's not for everyone. Still, there are people walking around in the world who just don't understand it. Or as I like to call them, people without a sense of humor. They're out there hiding in the bushes.
Trust me.

I find this disbelief in irony hard to believe. Which is ironic because I find most things in life hard to believe. How about life itself for instance. Can you believe we're all going to die at some random time and place completely unbeknownst to any of us? Yet here we are cleaning the toilet bowl, wrapping Christmas presents and throwing cocktail parties like we couldn't give a crap. And for the most part, we don't. Unless of course you're Woody Allen who writes entire films based on it. For the rest of us it's just the giant pink elephant in the room that we all step delicately around to get to the sausage tray and open bar. Ironic?
You bet, Susan.
So why all the fuss about irony? Well, it seems there are a few folks out there who think I should take my literary endeavors a little more seriously. Oh, I do. I'm very serious about using humor, sarcasm and irony in strange and wonderful new ways. I assume that most readers already know how bad things in life can get. I'll leave the seriousness of it all to the dramatists and Franz Kafka. In the meantime, I'll be writing 'bad poetry' and short stories about silly things like how I helped Bob Dylan learn how to write songs. (the man couldn't rhyme to save his life) And if by some cosmic irony I get hit by a bus, the only thing I want to hear at my funeral is, "Look! She's moving!"

"I don't want to achieve immortality through my work...I want to achieve it by not dying." -Woody Allen

Photo: Kathlyn Horan http://www.tinfishfilms.com/

Happy Holidays...Lard Ass!

2009-12-02T18:46:00.000-08:00

Well it's officially official...

I'm fat.

No, not in that 'maybe I should have shared that 18 pound turkey' kind of way or that Hollywood actress-y 'I weigh 105 but my manager says I look better onscreen at 102' kind of way either. This was my doctor saying "You should lose a few pounds."
A few? That's like telling Bukowski he's better with just 'a couple' of drinks. Sure, things were starting to jiggle.
I'm a writer.
I sit.
I sit around.
A lot.
I sit around and stare at nothing. It scares the cats.
Apparently it scares the neighbors too. There were phone calls.
As I see it, there are a few problems with losing 'a few' pounds.
Problem #1: 'A few' turned out to be 15 pounds.
It didn't help that as I was leaving he said, "Good luck, lard-ass."
The nurse even grabbed the lollypop out of my hand
with a look that said we're not screwing around here lady!
Problem #2: I like white food.
Pasta, pizza, cheese, bread. Lots of bread. Lots of crispy, doughy, toasty bread!
Yes, Susan, carbs. Fatty, yummy, dirty carbs.
Problem #3: There is no exercise in the world that can keep me interested for more than 5 minutes. Except of course a police chase and unless I cross the State line into Nevada they tend to end pretty quickly. Being roughed up and handcuffed only burns about 40 calories anyway. So what's a gal to do?
I have a plan, Susan.
I've decided to go ahead and balloon up to 350.
Whoopie Pies, fried chicken and pancakes with syrup for breakfast, lunch and dinner!
That way it'll be obvious to EVERYONE that snacking is a form of exercise in and of itself. Also, it'll be impossible for me to keep writing. Much like jogging, one sentence and I'll be completely out of breath. In the meantime, gird your buffet table. I'm on my way over with an empty stomach and a 5 year old holiday fruitcake.

No dessert until you sell some poetry!

2009-11-11T15:35:00.000-08:00

There's a delightful story by Barry Yourgrau in his book of short stories called 'The Sadness Of Sex.' It involves a woman whose vagina has escaped from her loins and is terrorizing a small town. I feel the same way about my new book B IS FOR BAD POETRY. Yes, Susan, I do write sometimes when I'm not trying to learn fire dancing in the shower. Since we live in a capitalist society, turns out you can't write a book and hand it out for free at the mall. So I'm off on my Willy Loman adventure. Join me, won't you?

Thursday, November 12th at MANDRAKE BAR in Culver City 8pm
Book Reading/Booze/Embarrassment!

Saturday, November 14th at Chevalier's Books in Larchmont 11-1pm
Book Signing

Saturday, November 14th at WACKO on Hollywood Blvd. 6-9pm
More Booze & Book Readings! Bring your own bad poems!

And a few reviews:
LA TIMES JACKET COPY

BOOK PLEASURES

People. They're not just for breakfast anymore

2009-10-29T19:03:00.000-07:00

I always say I'm going to stop reading the news online. Yes! I should be writing. I'm aware of that, Susan. But as long as I'm hooked up to the internet and not a morphine drip, chances are I'll be buying vicodin in bulk and reading the news. Lots of it. Todays 'what the fuck' headline:

'Coyotes Kill Young Singer-Songwriter On Hike In Park'

Seriously. WTF! Now I know I won't be finishing my crappy novel today. She was probably thinking of lyrics to her new song about the great outdoors and how society is a prison...wishing she had a pen to write it all down and then WTF!

Coyotes.
Friggin' coyotes.

Now I'm all for irony. But this is just the world on a platter of cruelty.
But...
being a very bad poet above all else, some very bad poetry came to mind when we all know I should be writing. Things like:
'and I thought the music industry would eat you alive'
or 'I took the road less traveled and that was probably a bad idea after all'
or 'The Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy unless you run into coyotes.'

Sadly, there's more. But I should get back to my 'writing.'

What the hell am I doing drinking in L.A.?

2009-10-19T22:25:00.000-07:00

There is a circus freak show of things writers get themselves into when they should be writing. Booze comes to mind first. After that, it's just a cacophony of the ridiculous. I'll do my best to expose you to some of the sordid places I go when the writing gets tough and the tough hide under the kitchen table. For instance, I thought it might be fun to use the word 'hirsute' in a poem. Essentially, it means hairy. Not exactly what I was thinking of. Lo and behold it was all downhill from there. For example:

Hirsute, my love won't matter

was the line I was thinking of. That was five hours of wasted time I'll never get back. After a vicodin and a call to the suicide hotline I realize of course love won't matter if it's hairy. What the hell is that and who would write such a thing? After the pills kicked in and 'Wanda' talked me out of blowing my brains out, I realized I may have actually meant 'forsooth' which makes a lot more sense. It may not mean alot to most people but that's what happens when you lay around naked with a pad of paper and a pen.