Real Quick
Went on the radio tonight to promote the upcoming Houston Poetry Fest workshop I’m doing, and it was fun. I met a local poet whose I now christen, psuedonymously, Deann Bon Jovi. Hi, Deann! (Bon Jovi.)
Oh, PS, that reminds me… If you know me in real life, and you choose to go to the workshop next week, please don’t say anything about knowing me in real life. I mean, don’t stand up at question time and say, “Hi! I’m Gwen’s cousin, and I’m a writer, too, and I just wanted to say that! Gwen, my question is: How come you don’t write a book about me, girl??? Ha, ha!!!”
Or, like, don’t stand up and say, “Hi, I’m Gwen’s coworker from her day job, and I’ve never bought Gwen’s books, but I hope that won’t keep her from letting me read my 24-page poem about how much I love kittens and my dead grandmother. Ready? Here it goes…”
Okay? Because I love you guys very much.
Real Slow
It makes me sad when I’m on MySpace, friending my favoritest DJs, and I see that all their top friends happen to be illustrated with pictures of women showing their boobs.
I like music and I like to buy CDs. I hope that’s okay. I hope it’s enough for me to consider myself a fan, I mean. I’m not saying that Ferry Corsten should put me in his Top 4. I’m just saying. You know? What is with the proliferation of women who both like trance and like to show their boobs on MySpace?
Or women who like to show their boobs for any man online, I mean. What is with that? Is that the best way y’all can think of to show admiration?
Maybe it is. Hmm.
If you like my writing, show me your boobs, then.
Just kidding. Don’t show me anything. Just be happy, okay? That’s how I like to imagine y’all, late at night in bed alone: looking happy.
