I ate her. She was mad. But we're all breathing a sigh of relief.
I was reading yesterday's post and I decided I am not going to be some overstuffed Scarlet O'Hara any longer. Conversely, I am not going to 180 on myself (or anyone who reads this) and prance around like some ninny-pinny hopeful-assed Pollyanna. I will drink my poison and I will wear appropriate knickers at the same time. Fuck wallowing in misery. (Don't laugh at me if I eat my words tomorrow, by the way.) Did I mention I just spoke with Amy Albany, daughter of late great Joe Albany, and author of the book Low Down? Me! I SPOKE to her on the TELEPHONE, and she's a hella nice gal. Woman, I suppose is more appropriate. She was raised in the seudo-ghettos of S.F. and L.A. by her junk-lovin', jazz pianist father. She writes about her childhood with the kind of deft clarity I can only hope for. Aren't you awed by people who can remember their childhoods as if they were watching them on a projector playing on their living room wall? All I can remember with any real clarity is riding my bike into a rosebush once, and gagging on a piece of salami rind that my dad had to pull out before I died. Yuck. Wait, that's not true, I remember some other stuff, too, I'm sure. It's just all in safe keeping up in that attic I call my head. I spoke with the Bohemian about getting that interview with Noe Venable published. They said probably not, because she isn't touring locally, but to send some clippings anyhow, just in case they'd like to have me write for them in the future. Clippings? As in, published clippings? If I wanted to put together a portfolio that was not anorexic-looking, I'd have to include my award winning 6th grade fictional fantasy short story, and the poem some random college publication put out when I was 14. Which is just as pathetic anyhow. I think I will try and get published a bit more before trying to put together a journalism portfolio. Not that I think I am a bad writer. I think I am actually pretty good, but in terms of journalism my experience is sort of limited given the fact that Section M, despite promises to the contrary, has left me in a tiny, conwebby, dark corner away from the light of publication day. I have sent so many blood-sweat-and-tears works to them without any reply- not even a fuck you, go away- that I am beginning to consider burning down its headquarters. That would actually do my self esteem quite a bit of good, don't you think?