Sign This, But Don't Stripdamedged Aesthetician's book signing, Reader's Oasis, August 20, 2004 An ambush! From behind the bookcases emerged glorious vixens from every amorous experience (or is it fantasy?) this boy ever did have. Examining myself in the midst of this swirl was essentially for aesthetic purposes (how very appropos). Here I was at a surprise book signing. My own chapbook for God's sake! Off the record, I would strongly prefer to sign a John Ashbery, an Eileen Myles, a Myung Mi Kim. Hell, even a Suji Kwock Kim! Thrust into my hands again again my own printed willy, a part owner in the outsider tableaux of trial and error I call experimental. Me sans spangled blouse (a real confidence boost, gals!), hands trembling, noticing all the women's hips. I scrawled on covers to minimum standards of legibility. I read standing up upside down. I listened to my own poetry done justice by Dlyn Fairfax Parra and Mary Bodine. I flirted with a hot woman from Wild Oats who had arrived while on break. She had provided the munchies but, sadly, without undressing. Scrumptious Tiffany partook of succulent figs, or maybe that was everyone else, but I recognized her hands. My own X-ray specs notwithstanding, there was no nudity. Variety and quality rather than sheer mass, which is why we were partying in the Reader's Oasis, no longer a mirage but a pretty handy visual aid for, um, getting it up. Thanks Jeff. On the other hand, an open-shut case. Jude Ali having banged gavels, my nitroglycerine safe atop the shelf next to Noam Chomsky. I was appropriately abashed, but next time I'll sign his book, to the tune of my own handmade industrial music and, I hope to God, an increased performance wattage. Really, was it good for you? dA 082904 |