All Japanese Girl Rolls

I'd like to say that I have a million things to do before I get out of here and get to Cincinnati for the weekend, but that's a bold-face lie.  As we speak, a fresh copy of Bowie's Hunky Dory/Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust is burning for the drive.  That was the priority for the day.  They happen to fit on one CD if you cut out the alternate takes and tracks that they play on the radio too much, which also happen to be the weaker parts of the albums.  I say.

But you want substance.  Ok.  Ada's got readings galore on the menu:

Meanwhile, ordered Ross Gay's Against Which.  I've borrowed a copy for the weekend, and the first poem has me pretty stoked.  I've also dug his stuff over at fishouse.  Have you?

Max Xiantu has given you a new place to chill.  Swing by.  Check it out.  Chat him up.

I'm taking my quest for a gas tank for the cb650 with me.  That's not to say that if you come across a good gas tank for a 1980-82 Honda cb650, you should give me a holler right away.  And I know there are two on ebay, but one is a bit of a dog while the other doesn't positively go to my bike, and I'm not making that mistake again!  Before I got this morning, I'll be putting an additive into the bike as it stands to keep it all healthy if the cold strikes.

A warm blanket?  Arriving in the mail?  Why yes, it did, in the form of a response from one of my applications.  It wasn't calling me for an interview, but only telling me that all my stuff got there. However, the cozy part was how they began the message with "Dear Professor Deutsch."  A. That's some unexpected but welcome class, not grinding at distinctions between "instructor," "lecturer" and "Professor;" B. I'm just gonna look at it as foreshadowing.  If you read this, find it engaging enough that you've determined the plot arc of more narrative qualities of life, feel free to see it the same way.

Happy Thanksgiving!

See you in a few days!

Here's a poem for it.  From Jennifer L. Knox's first book, A Gringo Like Me, available from Bloof!

After the meal, Sandy decided we should spice up charades

by slapping the loser's butt with a ping-pong paddle.

Whenever Ed got slapped, he farted because he was so nervous.

The ladies won, slapped all the men's butts, but then what to do?

"Take off your clothes!" I told Sean, who didn't seem like the kind

of guy who'd do such a thing--but he was, and he did.  Then Jim

took off his clothes.  and then John.  Then the other Jim

who brought all the lovely bottles of wine.  And finally Ed.

Deb came out of the bathroom and saw five big men naked in the kitchen.

They screamed, "Take off your clothes!" We all figured she would,

and she did.  Then Sandy the Slapmaster, then me, then Tomoko

who kept her glasses on.  We walked around the house naked,

talking about how it was to be naked with other naked people,

how none of the guys had boners, and how cold it was out in the garage.

Somebody found a big bottle of vodka.  We made a no-hugging rule.

John kept trying to open the curtains and show the neighbors

what they were missing.  Ded thought an orgy was imminent,

but since we'd all spent a lot of time in Iowa, I didn't think it would fly.

Jim passed out.  Ed put a robe on.  I passed out.  We woke up

the next morning in T-shirts, ate bagels from Bagel Land, and said,

"We all got naked last night." That afternoon, on our way

to the Walt Whitman Mall, the ladies gave each other nicknames

ending with the word Bitch.  Deb was Shy Bitch,

Sandy was Gentle Bitch, Tomoko was Slutty Bitch and I was Silent Bitch.

All the bitches agreed that slapping people's butts with a paddle

was something we needed to do every weekend, that this was the best

Thanksgiving ever, and that Ed had the biggest dick we'd ever seen.