4.15.04

Lisa and I had the best time in Portland last week. Here's a big thank you to Crystal Williams and Peter Rock for setting up my reading at Reed College. And a thank you to all those who came and didn't heckle. And yet another thank you to Crystal for setting up a dinner party at her pad, which was a hoot as we got to meet Charles D'Ambrosio (read his genius New Yorker story here) and Heather Larimer, drink the best scotch I've ever had, and eat the best asparagus I've ever had (sorry mom). Here are some pictures from our trip.

Been reading lots of poetry collections over the past two weeks, books I've picked up at AWP and at Powell's: Jonah Winter, Mary Quade, Srikanth Reddy, Matthea Harvey, Louise Mathias, Charles Wright. Quade's Guide to Native Beasts (Cleveland State University Press) is probably my favorite. I keep going back to her poem "The Fifth of July", which begins like this: "The sidewalks wear mascara, / and dogs emerge from basements / to sniff the fading sausage from the air. / No one eats breakfast, the refrigerator, / all beans and pickles and condiments. / Red sticks of bottle rockets irritate the roofs." Good stuff, no? That sidewalk wearing mascara? Wish I thought of that one.

If Modest Mouse's latest, Good News For People Who Love Bad News, was their debut album, then I would say to myself (as I am fond of talking to myself): "Wow, these guys are great. Can't wait to see what they do next." As it is, this is their fourth full-length studio album, and their previous three albums are much better. Can't help but feel a bit disappointed even though there are some truly great tunes here. Granted, none of the songs are as bad as Leonard Nemoy's "The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins", but I'd rather listen to Franz Ferdinand's debut album instead, which reminds me of Interpol minus the brooding (watch them perform live here on KCRW's Morning Becomes Eclectic). Or John Vanderslice's Cellar Door. Love, love, love the first song on the album. And this one too, which makes me want to weep everytime I hear it.

If you don't care about Scrabble, stop reading. If you do, if you're a Scrabble freak like me, then read on. So Lisa plays SQUEEGEE on the triple word score and gets 101 points. Zooms right past me. Oh, she's feeling confident, what with a triple-digit lead and only a handful of tiles left in the bag. A few turns later and I play DRIZZLES on the triple word score off of SQUEEGEE, score 121 points, and eventually win the game. Wish I had a photo of the moment the wind leaves Lisa's sails and blows into mine, but a picture of the board will have to do.

Here's a poem.

 

4.5.04

Ten years have passed since the death of Kurt Cobain. Here's a poem I wrote a few years back, as well as the shirt worn by Kurt in the "Smells Like Teen Spirit" video.

 

4.1.04

Lots to report about AWP in Chicago and I don't know where to begin. The conference was gigantic, as it is every year, but this year it seemed especially overwhelming. I wouldn't be surprised if, in a few years, the conference will be held at a football stadium. The book fair will be on the field, the panels up in the stands. Halftime show readings. It was the first time I didn't attend any of the panels, which gave me more time to just chat with friends, meet a few poets I admire, and explore all the presses and magazines at the book fair. Lots of new magazines have cropped up (including, of course, Swink), but the one I was most impressed with was The Antarctica Review. Beautiful layout and superb writing. Thursday night was the Swink/Tin House reading/shindig at the Open End Gallery. It was a hoot, with about 200 folks in attendance to listen, mingle, and take advantage of the open bar. I had such a blast that I didn't mind that my indie rock hero, David Berman, was reading and playing (you can catch a glimpse of his performance here) at another event which conflicted with this one. I can't wait to go back to Chicago in June and see more of the city. Anyway, here are a few pictures from the book fair as well as the Swink/Tin House celebration.

 

3.21.04

Have you picked up Bob Hicok's Insomnia Diary (Pitt Poetry Series) yet? Is he not one of the most imaginative and inventive poets writing today? I'm amazed that he's been able to sustain this level of quality for four books now. There are so many outstanding poems here. One of my favorites, "Tuesday's walk", begins like this: "This was before stars. A thin broth of clouds / out west and our debate over color, if cobalt / or azure was the apt word for sky, / finally we threw our mouths away / when language got in the way of being stunned." When it comes to this collection, the opposite is true: you'll be stunned because of his language.

Okay, you want to laugh now? Check out these photos of me when I was a little runt.

AWP is just around the corner. I can't wait. I'm a little bummed the conference is happening at the same time that Modest Mouse is playing around here. At least I could always watch them perform "Bury Me With It" here from their upcoming album. I'm convinced Isaac Brock is Frank Black's long lost little brother. He looks and screams just like him. Too bad Carson Daly introduces the band. Who names their child Carson? (Any Carsons reading this now: I apologize.)

Here's a poem. I'm sure I wasn't the only person who wrote one about this incident.

 

3.15.04

Last month my grandmother passed away and I made a conscious decision not to mention it in my last journal entry. When I started this journal way back when, I had in mind that it would be somewhat entertaining, with lots of reviews, poetry, and self-deprecating humor. Nothing too serious or personal. But I want to talk about her now. Her hearty laughter. How she crocheted these amazing doilies like giant snowflakes. Those days when we had a pet crow and how the bird would perch on her lap while she knitted. This past weekend I went to my parents' house and saw my grandfather. He's already had two heart attacks, the last one happening a couple months ago in his kitchen. His teeth were knocked out from hitting the counter, a scar arced from his upper lip. Beside him on the couch was a hole as immense and silent as a canyon, left by the woman he was married to for 71 years. My mother gave me an envelope full of old photographs, including this one of my grandmother and me, the sun bright on her face. I can't stop thinking about that soap bubble expanding between us, full of my breath.

 

3.1.04

I've been listening to The Meadowlands by the Wrens steadily now for the past two weeks. They've been getting lots of praise for this album, and for good reason. Full of juicy hooks and catchy melodies, The Meadowlands reminds me of Guided by Voices during the heyday of their greatness. I had the privilege of seeing this obscure New Jersey band in action at Koo's here in Long Beach. In short: they rocked. Everyone was bobbing their heads like those little dashboard dogs. Here's a picture of the band warming up.

Anyone out there have a Dell computer? Have you ever had to call technical support? About a week ago I was on the phone with them, off and on, for about eight hours. That's right: eight hours. They support squat. The experience prompted me to design their new logo.

I have conjunctivitis (aka pinkeye) on my right eye. Man, it makes it hard to read.

 

2.17.04

Epoch is one of those rare literary journals that publishes knockout stories and poems. It seems like I'm always pleased with what I find between its pages, and the latest issue is no exception. I haven't read all the stories yet, but Andrew Porter's unsettling "River Dog" and Robert Schirmer's comical/tragic "The Defiant Ones" are both outstanding. As are the poems. My favorites: Jesse Lee Kercheval's "40" and Bill Knott's two poems, especially "Towers". Here's the ending: "Every tower around here / is always in need of repair, / due to the superstitious habit / of leaning over / to peek into its 13th floor / to make sure it's still not there."

A good litmus test for me to gauge a movie's brilliance is if I'm still thinking about it the day after. Or the day after that. It's now been four days since I've seen Touching the Void and my mind is still occupied with this engrossing film about two friends hiking up Siula Grande in the Peruvian Andes. Based on a true story, the movie goes back and forth between interviews with the climbers and reenactments of their excursion. The film seemed to cover everything: the meaning of life and death, will, hunger, guilt, loneliness, the human body, the existence or non-existence of God, friendship, time, morality, and insanity. Check it out. And have your hands on your lap, palms up, ready to catch your jaw.

Here's a poem.

 

1.30.04

They warned us it would be cold in New York. We brought our scarves, knitted hats, gloves. We were prepared. Or so we thought. With the wind-chill, the temperature dipped into the single digits, which was no match for our California coats. Still, Lisa and I had a hoot. Highlights: meeting Nelly Reifler for drinks at the Push Cafe, yummy Korean food at Woo Lae Oak, our cheerful taxicab driver ("I love children. And when an elderly man or woman comes in, I turn off the meter."), and chatting with Lisa's agent Andrew at the W Union Square bar and watching the snowflakes twirl outside the large windows like a swarm of white moths. Here are a few pictures from our trip.

I was mistaken yet again for that poet in Chicago who shares my name. Now, if I was mistaken for Dave Hernandez, the bass player for the Shins, then that would be cool.

Any Scrabble junkies out there? The other day I got 503 pts and four bingos. Lisa was so proud. Then, in the very next game, she got 507 pts. What a show off.

 

Previous Journal Entries
10/17/03 - 1/15/04
7/2/03 - 9/30/03
4/21/03 - 6/15/03
1/7/03 - 4/18/03
9/24/02 - 12/24/02