March 26, again

I've been joking with Marissa about writing a sad children's book called Earl, The One-Armed Octopus. It would concern Earl, a multicolored cephalopod who, over the course of the story, loses all but one of his beautiful tentacles. There'd be some redemptive ending-- somehow, Earl's one-armedness would uniquely qualify him to save the day. Maybe I could get Blah to do the illustrations.

The book could easily spin-off into a video game, a quest-adventure in which Earl would seek to recover his missing tentacles. With each new tentacle he gained, he would become more adept and powerful. His tentacles could be re-attached by a Sturgeon Surgeon.

This could be the greatest cash-cow idea since I conceived of the Dog Hockey Adventure movie franchise...

It's been a night for home-made albums. First I listened to Whiskey Face Beer Can, a compilation of Beck rarities and B-Sides composed by me and my old housemate Brian. Then I listened to Dear Sir: I have a complaint., a collection of Radiohead rarities compiled by Scott. Much loveliness.

Such a social night! First, I went to Pergolesi with D. and had beer. Actually, he had two beers, and I sat with him beneath a blossoming tree and watched pretty girls. After he left, I came home and hung out with Scott, then returned to Pergolesi with him. We had a nice talk, and I watched another pretty girl-- this one, unfortunately, had execrable taste in books. She was reading a James Patterson novel. Patterson is the most incompetent prose stylist of our generation. Ah, well. Then home, to read some of Lansdale's Freezer Burn (which is delightful and f***ed up, like most Lansdale novels). Scott got hungry midnightish, and we went to Saturn for some food. So much good conversation! Even if it did lead to a lamentable lack of me writing Rangergirl.

Now, even though I passed on the possibility of a Turkish Coffee shake at Saturn, I feel unable to sleep. Perhaps I have a truly strange sleep schedule now, that requires the occasional night of only four hours of sleep? That would be acceptable. I could deal with that.

The Speculon poetry guidelines are up. Read them, and submit, and encourage your poetry-writing friends to submit! I'm eager to get started.

Amily reminded me of my past editorial endeavors this evening. First, I was co-editor of the Southern Wayne High School Literary Magazine, Saint Sounds. This seeming conflict of interest did not prevent me from printing lots of my own work in the magazine, of course. Did I mention I was voted "Most Talented" as a senior at Southern Wayne, voted on by my fair fellow students, who appreciated my writing? Ah, yes. Most talented at Southern Wayne. Quite the distinction and honor, I assure you. I was also chosen as Student of the Month once, but I'll spare you that sordid tale of corruption and woe. Besides, it just makes me sound like a big dork.

In college, I was a co-editor of East Underground, a literary magazine open only to submissions from people who lived or had once lived in East Hall (which was once ranked as the best "Pot Dorm" in the country). That was a lot of fun. There was a really beautiful, wonderful woman on the staff with me. Later on in college, we became briefly but passionately involved. Then she moved away. She's married, now. Sigh. I've always had a thing for long dark hair and dark eyes, and she was the loveliest of that sort.

Then I was asked to edit the student poetry publication, Appalachian Broadsides, during my senior year. I gladly took the reins of that fine publication, which included among its enticements my very own key to my very own Appalachian Broadsides office. The poems we received were only so-so... but my staff was amazing. Several of them were great poets, and all were dedicated people who helped me read through the surprisingly numerous submissions. We chose poems mostly by committee-- my staff had good taste, so that wasn't a problem.

You'll notice that all those positions listed above involved staff, or co-editors. But now... Ah, now. Now I wield total control. This heady sensation... why, it must be power! The sweet, sweet smell of power!

I should stop this and go to bed, shouldn't I?

"Even magnetohydrodynamics can be fun when you're in love."

-Scott Seagroves