Do you remember this post I wrote a while back called what is happiness anyway it’s probably for the birds? You don’t, which is why I’ve very helpfully linked it there for you, to help you refresh your memory. I don’t expect you to be Superman. He’s probably not very good at remembering things either.
So yeah, I became the Poetry Editor of The Los Angeles Review. Am still doing that. We can talk about it. It’s cool. I like it.
Around the same time, I had an idea. I followed it like a bird following a worm down a hole that its head is definitely going to get stuck in, and I accidentally-on-purpose (it was a brick-ton of work, there was nothing accidental about it) started a new reading series, which consisted of just one reading, but it was a great reading, and these four amazing poets that I know read parts of Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself out loud while everyone drank beer and ate ice cream sandwiches and then got down to a funk band and the night ended in a dance party, which is always the right answer.
Then I got a job. Which is why there’s only been one reading so far. And is probably most of the reasons (#1-84 of 92) why I haven’t been writing here. Because I write at my job. Which is cool. I get paid (with benefits and e’rything!) to write all day. Then I come home and…don’t write.
I’ll figure it out. Maybe once the TV and Internet run out of stuff for me to look at.
Oh yeah, and that AWP literary conference in Seattle 2014 that was eating people’s anxieties and burping them out a year in advance? (You totally didn’t go read that old letter, whatever, it’s cool, I don’t care, basically the Lena Dunham of not caring over here.) I got sick and didn’t go. Don’t tell me how it was. I don’t care.
Ok, I did go, one day, for like 2.167 hours, and I ate a crepe. It was delicious.