The Very Gay Bert and Ernie

I said I would resist this, but I couldn't. Peter posted this whole "Which childhood gay icon are you" thing over at his blog. Well, I took it and lo and behold, my gay childhood icon is "the very Gay Bert and Ernie." What the hell does this mean? Why am I not Peppermint Pattie? Spongebob? Tinkie Winkie? Why am I a pair of freakin striped-shirt wearing puppets? Who ever understands these things?

Back in the Bay

Once again, last night, our flight back from Vegas was delayed. This time it was due to weather in San Francisco. I don't really know why airports are so draining, but waiting in an airport is like a lesson in dying. Okay, that is a little melodramatic, but I swear to God, it is awful. We made it back to SF, watched Carnivale, and called it a night. The trip just drained us, even though the actual flight was only an hour and a half. But Carnivale was so freakin good last night it made the evening less awful.

I got an invitation this morning to join the faculty of the Warren Wilson Low Residency MFA Program. I have to check my medical practice's schedule. I am not sure I could teach there this summer. I am just not sure I can take a week for Napa and a week for WW. But I am going to look into it. It is very exciting. WW is a pretty rigorous MFA program. I am incredibly flattered.

Okay, time to get to work. Patients to see. This is going to be a very long week. No day off this week.

Viva Las Vegas!

So, my sister and her husband are in Vegas for the first time ever, and Jacob and I, despite kicking and screaming and protesting, flew here to Vegas to meet them yesterday afternoon. We told my sister all about "filthy whores" and she thought it was pretty funny. Unfortunately, we didn't tell her the slot is really called "Mystical Mermaids" and so, late last night, she was walking around the casino looking for "filthy whores" and asking people where she could find it. She apparently got a few looks, especially from lecherous old men. When I explained to her this morning that this is just what we call this game, we all laughed for a good ten minutes.

Today, Jacob and I are teaching her and her husband how to play Baccarat. Of course, we will now have to introduce them to the game that has brought us so many laughs. And I am sorry to say that the Bellagio has not granted us our wish that a fountain show be designed to Duran Duran's "Rio." Celine Dion still reigns supreme at the fountains. If I see one more woman turn to her man with that almost weepy look and say "I love this song," I will scream. Oh Celine Dion, can't we keep all of your music in your show at Caesar's Palace, just eliminate you from the airwaves and the fountain show?

Strangelove

Picture me, the awkward teenager, but awkward mostly because my mind and body were so at odds with each other. My body went to school, did the things high school students are supposed to do, but my mind was always elsewhere. As an uncle of mine used to say to me: "You think too much!" About the only place where my mind and body agreed was, oddly enough, music. No, I wasn't cranking up the volume on Mahler at age 16. But I listened to a lot of what would have been considered alternative music then. Yes, I did listen to bad Madonna singles, but most of the time I was listening to a great deal of the new British invasion. One group I listened to with attention was depeche mode. depeche mode's songs were really the first songs where I actually paid attention to the lyrics. Even now, I have to say their lyrics, along with the Cure's lyrics, remain some of the odder, more surprising lyrics out there. In many ways, you have to wonder how these lyrics became such catchy songs. But then again, it is amazing what doom and gloom a synthesizer can pretty up and make danceable.

Anyway, I listened to a lot of depeche mode (loudly, as teenagers do) and I find it funny, even to this day, that there was one song my Mom forbid me to play. No, oddly enough, it wasn't "Master and Servant." The song that freaked her out everytime she heard it, specifically the lyrics, was one of their most famous songs: "Strangelove."

"There'll be times, when my crimes
will seem almost unforgiveable.
I give in, to Sin,
because you have make this life livable.
But when you think I've had enough
from your Sea of Love
I'll take more than another
riverful. Yes and I'll make it all worthwhile.
I'll make your heart smile.
Pain, will you return it it?
I'll say it again, pain.."

Will you take the pain
I will give to you,
again and again,
and will you return it?"

I can still remember her face the first time she heard this song. She told me to turn it off. She told me she knew what this song was all about. I found this hysterical. Somehow, "Master and Servant" with its playful look at bondage didn't bother her, but this song did. Why? Last night, driving home, "Strangelove" was playing on the stereo. As I listened to it, I was suddenly struck with a new understanding of my mother. My mom has long since accepted who I am, but she didn't always understand. I am convinced all Mothers know their children are gay. They always seem to know, sometimes before their kids do! How could they not? We were once a part of their bodies, for God's sake. Even genetically, you are more your mother than your father. Your mitochondrial DNA only comes from your mother! But there, in the car, it hit me. "Strangelove" freaked my mother out because of the lines I quoted above. I am convinced those lines and my love of this song scared my mom because of her ideas of what being gay was back then. To her, gay equaled a life of suffering. No mom wants their kid to suffer.

Today, my Mom has very little if any issues about me being gay. Hell, she and my Dad seem to love Jacob more than me. All I hear whenever I call are questions about how he is doing and when will they see him again. Don't get me wrong. I find it all quite beautiful. This son isn't living a life of pain, a life that would have made her sad. Not too long ago, she remarked she always knew I would be a poet. I laughed and said that knowledge like that was impossible. Her response? "Poets notice the strangest things but then make them relevant to everyone." Yes, my mom still surprises me. I think she is spot on. My mom rocks. You go, Mom!

Craving Physicality

I have been thinking a lot lately about how much I miss painting. I started out studying visual art, primarily painting. In college, I had a crisis about it that, like most things in retrospect, now seems kind of silly. Anyway, it was that crisis that led me away from painting and to writing poems. I laugh about this all the time: if anyone had told me as a Freshman in college that I would be a poet or a doctor, I would have laughed. If anyone had said I would be doing both, I would have recommended they see a psychiatrist.

But getting back to painting, I miss it. I miss the physicality of it. Painting is a very physical act that demands not just technique but real and tangible physical skills. The last thing I painted was in 1993--a large triptych that now hangs in my living room. The last print I made was in 1996, a series of collages fusing photography with painting and collected images. I have been thinking a lot about adding some more collage prints to that sequence. And I have been thinking a lot about buying new painting supplies, ie. taking a baby step back toward actually stretching a canvas and painting.

I think I still remember how to mix color, to thicken an acrylic so it has a consistency closer to oil. Does one forgot these things? I am not sure. All of that said, I have no space in which to paint. Painting is messy (part of its fun, really). I keep having images I feel I want to capture, but I want to capture them visually, not just with an attempt at it with words. I suspect what I will end up doing is working on collages for prints. Less messy. Doesn't require too much of a specialized space, etc.

Confession. Gag!

Have any of you seen the movie "Monster"? I am not sure why I thought about this movie this morning while driving to work, but I really do think it is one of the most disturbing movies I have ever seen. Charlize Theron definitely deserved the Oscar she won for this movie. The funny thing is that I am convinced the movie wanted the audience to feel sympathetic toward the Christina Ricci character, but I totally didn't. I thought both characters were just sadly desperate and awful. Anyway, driving to work this morning I had a flashback to that movie and the awful emptiness I felt when I finished watching it. So depressing.

On a different note, what is up with this ridiculous new twist on American Idol? Now they are going to drag out the show another three weeks by making America vote on 24 people to eliminate twelve. Now we have to pick the twelve finalists? I swear to God, AI has become a monster whore for advertising dollars. I missed Monday and Tuesday night, and I doubt I will watch the lame and boring results show tonight. Yes, now you all know. I am a total junkie for bad reality TV shows like AI and Top Model. I am so ashamed, but I can't stop watching these things. They always seem perfect after a long tiring day. Okay Heathers, I need to go do some work.

The Rich Life

What the hell does it mean to live richly, to live poorly? Well, I believe I live a rich life. Walking through Golden Gate Park with Jacob is a cool $100,000. Writing a good poem is $500,000. Having someone like Jacob in my life is definitely hundreds of millions of dollars. I think my life is just swell, thank you. And no amount of money can buy anyone happiness. None. To the bastard who implied I live a poor life because this is San Francisco and it is is expensive here: FUCK YOU!

Why You Shouldn't Listen to Friends

It is funny how much difference an extra day for the weekend makes. Having yesterday off made the weekend seem like almost a week off. Anyway, back to work today.

I never made it to the Japanese Hot Springs yesterday. I tinkered with some lines for a poem and caught up on some errands. Jacob and I ended up watching "Napoleon Dynamite" and then running out for dinner. I still don't know what to think of that movie. Jacob liked it a lot. It had pretty funny moments, but overall I just couldn't seem to get into it. Oh well, you can't like everything.

You know, everyone has been telling me how quick The New Republic has been with submissions lately. Well, not when it comes to me. It has already been three months. Normally, I wouldn't even notice, but all these friends of mine told me how they heard in 4 weeks or so and how their poems ran a couple of weeks later. Well, maybe now there are too many poets sending because their friends told them how quick they were. Always my luck that way. Anyway, I only have a handful of poems and now they are all out. I haven't been so good about submitting, but I can at least blame that on not having poems to send. Part of me wishes I had more time to write. But as soon as I think that, I also think about all the bad poems I would write if I had a lot of time! I know myself. To much time equals lots of poems I end up feeding to the trash can.

Okay, time to head to work.

The "Doctor" in Me

The greatest thing ever invented (if you own a DVD player) is Netflix. Jacob and I love Netflix. We have a ridiculous cue of movies there and we always have movies at home to watch. It rocks. Anyway, last night, after Carnivale (which is so good I could scream), we decided to watch a movie. The three movies we had sitting there were "Napoleon Dynamite," "Donnie Darko," and "K-Pax." The funny thing is that just now I checked Charles' blog and saw that two of them were movies he was about to watch or just watched. Anyway, we ended up watching "Donnie Darko." What a weird movie. Not weird as in yuck, but weird as in truly thought-provoking. I mean anything with a psycho death bunny talking to you is thought-provoking, right? In the end though, I found the doctor in me taking over. Instead of relishing the oddity of disjunctive time in the movie, I kept thinking about psych meds and how many of them can actually cause more problems while solving one.

I am prepping for "Publishing Secret Number 4." The more I think about it, the more I realize it really should have been the first one I did. It is all about how to survive as a poet. Anyway, that is all I will say for now.

Jacob is running in to Lab to do some assays and run gels and stuff. I plan to finish up some last minute stray editorial work and maybe go to the Japanese Hot Springs to soak in vats of really hot water and sit in the steam room until I melt in non-existence. Then again, I am not sure it is open today seeing it is a holiday. Maybe I should stay here and tinker with my Corpus Medicum poem some more. I think it is almost done.

Like a Fish From Its Element

So, the 61 submissions I needed to read yesterday was actually 81. I didn't realize an entire other batch was under the three I could see. So, in the end, I read about 365 poems. The good thing was that I found 8 to publish. 8! That is a pretty good yield. And the 8 are really wonderful. A good day, even if it took longer to get through it all because of the extra 20 submissions I hadn't banked on. And I dropped off 160 submissions to one of my readers, so now the poor lad has about 720 poems to read. My apartment is now cleared of submissions, for now. I am sure another box or two will arrive from Middlebury this week.

I spent the last hour re-reading some of the poems in Derek Walcott's Midsummer. I still find some of those poems to be beyond gorgeous. I know there are those who find his work overly baroque and uninviting, but I still love many of his poems, so many of them. Take the following:


XXIV

What broke the green lianas' ropes? Scaled armor.
What folded the bittern in midflight? One arrow.
What flapped the mackerel agape into quiet? A lancer.
Who flew level as morning? The sea sparrow.
Yes, the sea swift flew nameless that wordless summer
in the leafy silence before their christening language.
The berry leaf died of its own accord, as always, and
the parakeet screeched its own question and answer,
the right verb leapt like a fish from its element,
the tadpole wriggled like an eager comma,
and the snake coiled round its trunk in an ampersand.
It was the snake that linked the two hemispheres,
since in the world's bitter half of churches and domes
another new epoch groaned, opening on its hinge;
from his balcony another monarch pronounced a new age
as gargoyles shifted their haunches with a fixed grimace;
in an alley another throat was opened by a cutpurse
like the valve of an oyster. Was evil brought to this place
with language? Did the sea worm bury that secret in clear sand,
in the coral cathedrals, the submarine catacombs
where the jellyfish trails its purple, imperial fringe?


I love the opening questions and answers in this poem and the fact the end of the poem poses questions that aren't answered at all. I love the fact each and every word seems selected so that no matter how baroque this may seem, nothing seems extraneous when you really take it apart. I love the way evil enters the poem. Walcott has a gift for introducing evil in his poems. It is quiet and sinister. And how does he get away with using all those terms about writing and reading in a poem? We get "verb", "comma", and "ampersand" in rapid succession. Many other poets couldn't carry this off. Walcott's poems brim with history, whether it is always apparent or not. What he can bring to a poem is a history of the Caribbean and its terrible occupations, the ways in which a people can restructure a landscape not just with guns and shovels but with their own language.

It makes me happy there are poems like this in the world.

Neighborhood Watch

As I am wont to do every so often, here is a quick rundown of things going on in the blog neighborhood:

1. Eduardo has his own roundup, but that doesn't spare him from being rounded up here! And yes, Eduardo, we know what rhymes with "tuck," which is why Charles is blushing and stammering.

2. Jimmy is at it again. This time, on the infamous "What the Hell Is Up With Your Author Photo": Robert Wrigley and Gregory Corso.

3. Rebecca Loudon shows us that nowhere is safe, not even the cafeteria.

4. Tony is all excited over a woman who dipped herself in sauce. (hey, I just report the news, people)

5. Peter is peddling Dante's Inferno Test. Let us just say that a good many of bloggers will be in the seventh circle. Bring your thongs!

6. And there is a new addition to our neighborhood. Stop by and meet Gideon. Reb Livingston has a cutie on her hands.

Time To Read

It is still raining in the Bay Area. It has been raining all week. I mean, what is this? This isn't Seattle. Anyway, I am forgoing Japanese Hot Springs today because I need to clear off my NER desk here at home. I have 61 submissions I need to read, a combination of submissions that passed our initial readers, submissions from previous contributors, and submissions from very established poets. Although one can always dream big, it is unlikely I will find more than maybe 2 or 3 poems in this stack to publish. Every so often, I am surprised with a highish number, but I kind of know from the past what the likelihood of finding poems to publish is in various stacks. I also need to drop off a stack of 160 submissions to one of my readers, David Roderick. Each submission to NER has 3-6 poems in it. So, this is a lot of poems. If David finds 5-10 poems for me to look at, I will be pleasantly surprised. Yes, it all sounds depressing. But the true joy is finding the work that knocks your socks off; I mean the ones where your socks are across the room and stuck to the wall because of the force with which they hit the wall!

When I started editing poems for NER in the Fall of 1995, we used to receive about 9,000 poems a year. I was the only reader for poems. Within a couple of years, we hit 15,000 poems. I had to bring on a reader. Now we receive a little over 35,000 poems a year. I now have three readers. All of my readers are phenomenal. All three are published poets. 2 of the 3 have books. They are David Roderick, Major Jackson, and Elizabeth Powell. We actually pay our readers. And they are very loyal to the magazine. There is little turnover. I am completely indebted to them. They help us to find the 65-80 poems a year we publish while sifting through the tens of thousands of poems we receive. What gets us excited, the amazing poem from a poet none of us have ever heard of before.

NER has quite a history for discovering and publishing poets very early in the careers (a history of discovery that long precedes my involvement there). We are many times the poets' first or second publication. I don't ever want that to change. In every issue of NER, you will find the established and the newcomer. That is the fun of this job. Without the discoveries, it would be a boring endeavor. Editors love to have bragging rights. We love to be able to say I helped discover Natasha Trethewey, Nick Flynn, Cate Marvin, etc. Okay, time to stop procrastinating. I have roughly 275 poems to read. I should be through, if I stay focused, in about 2 and a half hours. Where are my Brahms Piano Trios?

Poetry, Hangups, & Stevens!

People often ask me if I tell patients I am a poet. I never understand from where this question comes. That said, the answer is almost always No. I am a radiation oncologist. 99% of my patients have cancer. When they come to see me for consultation, they are freaked out about their diagnosis, about radiation, about everything. They want an expert to help them. They want someone who cares about their condition. I think it would be incredibly narcissistic to talk about myself or my life much less poetry. And I really do think that, for the vast majority of patients out there, finding out I am a poet might freak them out. This goes back to the expert/seriousness issue. They want an oncologist to cure them, not necessarily one that can quote Yeats.

That said, I have patients who I see in Follow up visits that I treated years ago. These people know a lot more about me because I have been seeing them for years. We hug when I come into the room. I never hug new patients! We talk about what has been going on. It seems far more like a social visit. A number of these folk know I write poetry. And that seems okay to me.

To be honest, I also realize that many of these hangups I have are probably more about me; I am really quite amazing in my ability to justify anything. What is that phrase? Denial is more than a river in Egypt. Again, let me stop now. This is turning into therapy again.

But speaking of denial and hangups, I am thinking again about Stevens, specifically the way he undercuts most emotion in his poems almost immediately after it appears. I have always been fascinated by his ability to do this. He is the master of the "concrete of the abstract" and the "abstract of the concrete," something few other poets have used to great effect (Justice is referred to as an heir to Stevens partly because he DOES do this and does it well). Ah, but Stevens: "Complacencies of the peignoir..." Isn't that one of the most masterful "abstract of the concrete" phrases ever? Oh Wallace Stevens, you rock!

Worry & the Wiley Semicolon

I thought the second time around would be easier, but I am starting to have anxieties about the new book coming out. Right now, I am mostly worried about whether or not it will really come out on time, on April 1st. And, of course, I am worried the book has somehow become a bad thing. I went through this before with the first book. When a book is still a ms. you have total control over what happens to it. But once that ms. is contracted and production of the book begins, you slowly have less and less control until the book comes out and you no longer have any control over it at all. Anyone can read it. Anyone can draw suppositions about you as a writer and as a person from your work (whether or not they are true!). I have spent the past few months pretending not to be too worried about the whole book thing, but now I am strangely worried again. I just don't want an awful book circulating in the world.

And why is it our work always seems so much better than it is when we make it and then becomes worse with time? Haven't you noticed how many poets despise their first books within 10 years of publishing them? I don't despise mine yet, but I am definitely moving in that direction. Okay, I am rambling now. Time to go do some work. I am tongue tied after dictating 8 charts in the past 24 minutes. I am like an auctioneer when I dictate. Miraculously, when the transcripts come back there isn't a single blank to fill in. My claim to fame at most of the hospitals? I am the only doctor who apparently dictates, correctly, all punctuation. I am apparently the only doctor who uses not only parenthesis correctly, but also the wiley semicolon.

Gideon Arrived

Yay!! Reb Livingston delivered! (see comments on her post)

Gideon Hart Morrow was born at 5:35 p.m. 8.2 lbs and 21.5 inches.

As per her blog, she, the baby and hubbie are all fine.

Jensen is Fucking Brilliant!

See this. How can you not be in love with his mind?

Arrivals & Departures

Well, Reb Livingston is off to the hospital, and we are all sending good vibes for a quick and speedy delivery. Go Reb, go! We will be awaiting baby pictures.

Unfortunately, the sad news came in last night that Alberto has left the blog world. Today, even the final post he made is gone. I never thought one could get attached to virtual people, but I became quite attached to Alberto and his posts. I always checked his blog for new posts, and I always enjoyed them. He has a beautiful mind. I wish him well in whatever he does. Selfishly, I want him back and posting. I wish I understood why he left, but as in real life, sometimes people just leave. Sometimes we never understand why and never will.

Anyway, if you feel sad at losing Alberto, there is always a new martini for you to try out, courtesy of Peter. I left a recipe for the gayest martini ever in the comments section. Imagine Margaret Cho saying "That is sooooooooooo gaaaaayyyy!"

And for a good laugh, there is always Jim Behrle and his antics. He hasn't done a new "What the Hell is Up With Your Author Photo" recently, but his recent cartoons are outrageously funny.

Wish I had more fun to offer. I don't feel like talking poetry today. I definitely don't feel like talking medicine. Well, time to go get errands done. Definitely go check out Jimmy's cartoons. Laugh a little.

Glimpses of the Former Self

I keep all of my letters, both the ones I write and the ones I receive. I found this old letter of mine from September 1992. I read the following sentences and burst into laughter:

"I saw Danny’s poems in Southern Review. I sent him a card to say that I had seen them and he sent one back in reply telling me he was on the lookout for my poems. All I have to say is “Good Luck!” God himself only knows when I will be publishing in magazines as prestigious as Southern Review."

The "Danny" is the poet, Daniel Anderson. I met him at the Sewanee Writers Conference eons ago. It turned out we had mutual friends which, at the time, seemed so very odd to me. With time, I have come to realize the Poetry World is very small. Most poets I meet now share mutual friends with me. The funniest sentence in that little crazy paragraph is the last one. You can almost hear the awe and the sad desperation in it. The irony is that a year later I had a poem accepted at Southern Review. It was my second acceptance and, even to this day, I remember the excitement at getting it.

And then there was this golden nugget from the same month and year:

"I swear to God more than half the poetry editors out there are old and outdated. They wouldn't know a good poem if it bit them in the ass! If I were a poetry editor, I would work harder than these fools. And you know which fools I am talking about. I should be editing Poetry or Georgia Review or New England Review. If i were editing poems at such a magazine, things would be different. They would be."

This is almost more hilarious than the first! I had forgotten I ever wrote such a thing. The bile in it seems so idealistic and naive to me now. Three years after this letter was sent, I was editing poetry for NER. I really now have to wonder: Did I change anything? Is the poetry in NER better now than it was with the previous editors? I never thought of the poetry in NER back then as bad, so I cannot even remember what exactly I was railing against. I have been editing poetry for ten years now. Have I become one of these old and outdated poetry editors I used to despise? So odd to think about this.

Deliver(ance)

The rain here this morning was horrendous. Driving down 280, I felt as if I were driving in a cloud. I could barely even drive 45 mph. Sadly, I should have been concentrating more on the road, but instead I just drove in one of the slower lanes and thought about things. I thought about poetry stuff. Mostly I thought about the last three poems I have written. All seem of a certain mind to me. Of course, I know the dangers of this. I always think I am doing something new and then find out later it isn't that different from what I did before. But I am fascinated by the need we artists have to believe we are doing something new, as if doing something "old" but well were the kiss of death.

I am pretty happy with my last two poems. One is a very tender look at brothers. I am sure some out there will read the poem as entirely too homoerotic seeing the poem falls in a long tradition of "bath" poems. But it was the tenderness of the act of cleaning behind a loved one's ears I was after. No, I do not plug Aveda products in the poem, though maybe I should have. I have done so much of the moody landscape poem, so much of the moody mind poem, so much of the dark-and-haunted-time-after-a-breakup poem. I need to do something different. Lately, when I write a poem, I seem to be challenging myself to tackle different things. Of course, I am still me, so there is always a dark side to things in my poems. Even when I think it isn't there, others easily find it. Okay, this is boring me. I feel as if I am in therapy.

Jacob and I have been frantically checking Reb Livingston's blog to see if she has gone into labor yet. Sadly, she hasn't. Maybe it is time I start doing my baby delivering hop. I used to do this as a med student when I was on OB/Gyn. It worked every time!

Back

Well, we are back in San Francisco. Amazing considering the hell we went through trying to get back here on America West. Our flight was supposed to leave Vegas at 6:05pm. We didn't board the flight until almost 9:00pm. It was so ridiculous. Little was given in terms of explanation.

Busy day today in terms of patient numbers, etc. Best get to work.

Filthy Whores, the Sequel

So, once again we are drunk. And this time, I have to say the slot machine we have nicknamed "Filthy Whores" rocks. Jacob played 20 cents and won $42. Yes, $42. And it was filthy, as is expected with filthy whores. At one time tonight we made ourselves leave the casino and went outside to watch the fountains of Bellagio. Thankfully, they didn't play that god awful Celine Dion song they always play. But, instead, they played this bizarre song that sounded like a bad movie featuring Sioux Indians hopping up and down around a fire. It was so bizarre. I mean usually they play Sinatra, "All That Jazz," etc. Sometimes they play Copland's "Appalachian Spring," and if they really want the crowds to gather, they play that one Andrea Boccelli thing that everyone loves. But this Sioux Nation thing was just too bizarre. Jacob and I decided we are going to write the Bellagio and ask them to do a fountain show to Duran Duran's "Rio." I mean what a perfect song. All those horn's blowing just beg for skyrocketing water!

But we had to leave the fountains because time was wasting away, and the filthy whores were calling our names, like sirens. In the end, we both walked away having more than tripled our money. Thanks whores! The choice moment of the night: Jacob dancing in his seat to "Splish Splash I Was Taking a Bath" while two teenage boys kept walking by just to watch him. One said: "Dude, that guy is on some serious drugs." The other one said: "Yeah, but how do we ask him for some?" Classic.

Filthy Whores

Let me apologize now, but Jacob and I went to dinner at Commander's Palace tonight and had cocktails and a bottle of good wine. I am little tipsy. Anyway, we discovered a slot machine called Mystical Mermaids. Sadly, we renamed it "Filthy Whore." Whenever you got the treasure chest and one of the mermaids (whores) it would start a bonus round of "baths" where "Splish-Splash I was Taking a Bath" would start playing. Every time one of us got this bonus, we would start laughing and dancing in our seats. We kept screaming "filthy whore" at the machine, but because this is Vegas, no one seemed to notice. Lord, save our souls. We are drunk and yelling "filthy whore" in Vegas.

Grass is Always Greener

Hi all. No, I am not planning on running away from the Blogosphere. I think I just took yesterday's emails a little badly because I was tired. I think I attract this kind of attention. Eons ago, I used to visit the P & W Speakeasy. I started getting hate mail because of my posts, none of which I thought were even remotely controversial. Anyhoo, I will just have to use delete more often.

We are here in Vegas. I am having a blast, even if I have lost almost $400 so far! And what is it about drinking that convinces you a steak sandwich at midnight is a good thing? It WAS good at the time, but this morning it just wasn't so good. Roaming the casino is like a study in anthropology. Women in pants so tight you wonder how they move. Men with tatoos covering their entire arm. The young Indian guy who is dropping $600 a hand at the Bacarrat table. It is all so weird and fascinating. I wish I could write a poem about Vegas. But everytime I have tried to do so, it has failed miserably. Let's face it: I have a better shot at writing a good poem about the beach at sunset than I do about Vegas. Damn it, I wish I were hipper. I bet Sarah Manguso could write a kick ass poem about a casino. Ah, the grass is always greener...

People are Pissing Me Off!

You know, just because I post things here that are funny and personal doesn't mean any of you have a god damned right to email me with your questions, assertions about my personality, my life etc. This is a blog, for God's sake. A blog. It is simply my personal notes on life and whatever else I feel like writing about. There are lots of people blogging. If you don't like my blog, then don't visit. If it bothers you that I am a doctor, then don't visit my blog. If it bothers you my heart belongs to another man, DON'T BOTHER. In other words, if I bother you, then don't come here. Why one would repeatedly visit a site they don't like and then feel the need to email to instruct the blogger how better to do a blog is beyond me.

Talk Amongst Yourselves

Okay, so I will finally post about coffee, well, coffee makers. The carafe on my old Mellita coffee maker broke the other day and I went to get a new coffee maker. Well, it has been a while since I bought one, so I was pretty shocked. Some of the new coffee makers look more like torture devices than coffee makers. Spouts here, grates there, piping and stuff. Too weird. On the other extreme were coffee pots that looked like they should be in the break room of a used car dealership. Yuck. So, I ended up buying a Mr Coffee coffee maker. I had issues with this for a while, in the store, because I had always avoided Mr Coffee. I have no idea why. I think it is the name. A coffee maker named "Mr Coffee" is about as original as the place in the mall that sells corn dogs being named "Corn Dog on a Stick!" (don't get me started on that--I mean are there corn dogs NOT on a stick?)

Anyway, when I got the new coffee maker home, I was shocked to discover it has its own water filtration thingie that gets rid of chlorine and particulate matter. And it not only can be set to brew in the future, but it can also control how strong the coffee is, too. And it is all electronic and beeps when your coffee is ready. What in the world is going on? Mr Coffee has become luxurious.

This morning, I was pleasantly surprised to find my Columbian brew waiting for me at 5:15 AM. And it tasted good and strong. I half-expected Juan Valdez to walk into the kitchen to say "Buenos Dias."

Countdown

Well, I think I have recovered from all of the oddities of yesterday. In ten hours, we are off to Sin City! Oh God, please let today go by quickly.

I have been reading through the new issue of Pleiades, and I have been pretty impressed so far. Some really good poems and great reviews. Nice to see reviews other than the sniping things they do at POETRY. I mean what is up with those brief review things. They are so short and so mean they end up sounding ridiculous. All I can say is I hope to God I am not reviewed there now. I used to want a review in POETRY. Now I just pray I slip under the radar.

I have been thinking a lot about what should I discuss for Publishing Secret #3. I have it down to 3 things, and I think I know which one to do next. There is no real sequence to these, now that I think about it. Jim Behrle has WTHIUWYAP, and I have PS#whatever. Clearly, Jim's recurring feature is funnier.

Okay, time to finish my Naked Apple Juice (just love that name) and start seeing patients.

What the Hell

Today has not been a good day. It seems to be the day when patients just want to be nasty. I have had 4 different patients today do pretty despicable things. One purposely urinated in our exam room instead of walking to the bathroom right next to the exam room. Is it a full moon? I mean, this is so nasty, especially because now we cannot use the room for other patients until they come and clean it.

Better to roam the Blogworld. I recommend:

1. An interview of Deb Ager and John Poch, of 32 Poems fame, can be read here. It is also up at Poetry Daily. I think 32 Poems is a fabulous magazines, but I have to confess I am biased (I am on their Board of Directors).

2. Also, stop by and offer Suzanne words of congratulations.

3. Reb Livingston is happy in her own way for those getting good news.

4. Eduardo has news to demonstrate that even Penguins love Erasure.

5. ADT is blogging about VD and Erasure. Hey, I just report the news, people.

6. Jim Behrle continues his now truly odd tradition of "What the Hell is Up With Your Author Photo." Today's target: David Lehman. Jim is wickedly funny. I like David Lehman, but this is all in good fun. If you want to just die laughing, read the one on W.S. Merwin. Jim's site is a little odd in that you might need to scroll way down to get to the WTHIUWYAP. A shout out of thanks to Aimee Nez for introducing me to this site.

And for all of those who emailed me asking for me and Jacob to take you "spa-ing" because, like Jen Grotz you don't believe it is a real thing, we no longer accept students. You will just have to go check out a nice spa on your own freakin dollars. Just kidding. But we are NOT paying for any of your spa treatments!

Lastly, I wish it were Thursday. I need Vegas badly. I want it so bad (said in bad porn star voice). But seriously folks, I need a break from work. I need some slot machines and some Baccarat. And I mean I wouldn't turn down free gins and tonics, either. And why is no one blogging about Mardi Gras?

Samson

I picked up the new car. It is gorgeous!!! But this car is definitely a "boy" car. Those big rims, the sport suspension system. My old car was named Delilah II. Yes, there was a previous Delilah. But this car is definitely not a girl. I have named it Samson. Yup, Samson. I always name my cars. Don't you? What is your car's name?

All I Ever Needed to Know I Learned from Erasure (kind of)

So, I was going to post about coffee. Well... fuck Starbucks! We can do coffee talk later. Instead, cue the music (are your synthesizers ready?):

It's not the way you lead me by the hand into the bedroom.
It's not the way you throw your clothes upon the bathroom floor...

Scratch! Okay, stop the CD. Let's be real here. If anyone were going to throw their clothes on the floor, it would be me.

Anyway, a certain person gave me a little lecture yesterday about posting a response in my comments section in Spanish. Yes, he did. He even told me it was kind of pretentious. Well, I was more than annoyed at the time. Though now I think it kind of funny. Well, the way I look at it, I am Hispanic; I am allowed to write in Spanish to someone who reads Spanish. So there! Just kidding. ¡Tu sabes te quiero más que cualquier persona en el mundo! (You know I love you more than anyone in the world!)

Congratulations!

To Geri Doran, who just won the 2005-2006 Amy Lowell Travelling Scholarship.

To Patrick Phillips, whose book, Chatahoochee, just won the 2005 Kate Tufts Discovery Prize for a First Book.

Twilight Zone?

So, some of you may remember some posts back my post about Jacob and I having the same dream. Well, here is the weirdest thing. Jacob typically Instant Messages me when he gets to work. Today, when he IM'd, he asked first off if I slept okay last night. I wrote back: "No, see my blog." He then responded: "I had a dream last night that you had a bad dream and wrote about it on your blog!" I totally freaked out. He had to stop IMing so he could go read my blog entry. What the hell? This is truly weird. Even weirder since we each slept at our own apartments last night.

The Hangman

I had a very disturbing dream last night that not only woke me up at 2:30 AM but kept me awake for almost an hour. I was nervous about falling back to sleep for fear the dream continue. The dream was so vivid. In it, someone was unlatching windows, climbing into people's houses, and then killing them. The worse part is this killer was a spirit of some kind, not human. It killed people by hanging them from their porches. Very southern gothic and weird. What was incredible to me was the dream's sinister feeling and the fear. In the dream, I am in a living room sitting up with a bunch of people, none of whom I know. We are afraid to fall asleep for fear the "Hangman" comes and unlatches one of the windows and then steals one of us. In the dream, I am reciting poems to pass the time. And the wind is keening outside, the leaves brushing against the roof. In the dream, I never see the Hangman, but once, when we look out the front window, we can see, hanging from the porch across the street, an old woman. We know the hangman is near. When I woke up, I was sweating and disoriented. The fear was still with me, there in the room around my bed. Although I should have gotten up and gotten some water, I couldn't. I just lay there slightly freaked out. And when I went back to sleep, I consciously prayed I would not end up back in that living room with those people waiting for the Hangman.

No Freakin Paper!

So, I am one of those people who revises by printing things out and scribbling on them. Then I go back and make the changes on the computer. I do this over and over, sometimes for months, sometimes for years. Well, today I went to work on one of my drafts, and when I tried to print realized there was no paper in the printer. Worse, I had no paper in the house. What the hell kind of poet am I if I have no freakin paper!! I was so annoyed. How could I have run out of paper? I always have extra stacks of paper for my laser printer. Always. Anyway, I had to run to a Walgreens to get laser printer paper. And the whole way there, I cursed myself.

Okay, must head over to Jacob's to eat dinner and, yes, watch Carnivale. Next weekend, we may have to tape it because I am not sure we will be back from Vegas in time. And I cannot miss Carnivale. It is just so good. I mean, it is really good. I spend all of Sunday in anticipation.

On a final note, I appear to be very popular at the University of Houston. I know Jen Grotz isn't visiting my blog 15 times a day, so there are people there reading me. Hi Houston folk. Ah Houston, the best thing there, in my mind, is The Trellis Spa. I took Jen Grotz there because she didn't believe me when I told her that "to spa" is a verb. Well, she is now a believer. Maybe in a future blog I will have to recount my complete embarrassment on getting, um, aroused while receiving a Vichy Shower Massage there. The massage therapist woman was not amused. And I thought I was going to die! To this day I am surprised I didn't have a heart attack and die right there on the table.

Bananarama

It is weird, but all this talk of high school stereotypes has me remembering high school and all of its almost tragic things. For me, high school was all about identity confusion, and I mean that in so many ways. I can remember being in the fifth grade and praying to God to make me a Priest when I grew up because then I wouldn't have to date. By the time high school came around (with all its goddamned hormones) I was a wreck. My solution was to date lots of girls (yes, mostly cheerleaders, Gag!). But even then, I think I knew that I couldn't fall in love with a woman. Sex, well, most men can have sex with anyone (sometimes anything), so that wasn't an issue. But the heart and what makes it race, that was a different story.

And then there was Bananarama. I just loved them. But they were sooooooo gay. I loved that silly song, "Cruel Summer." Imagine the shock on my face when I forgot to take it out of the cassette player in my car; Lance and I snuck off for liquid lunch and when I started the car, Bananarama started to blare. I thought I was going to die! The funniest thing is that years later, Lance turned out to be gay. In fact, many of these high school jocks I knew ended up being gay! Go figure. My Dad always says you have to watch out for those ultra masculine guys. And my Dad should know seeing he was a professional bodybuilder when he was young. And what was my point again?

Yes, Identity and growing up is a weird thing. Nothing one could offer me would make me want to go back to high school. Nothing. That C. Dale is so dead. But I still like Bananarama and the occasional Belinda Carlisle song.

Dreams and OCD

Jacob and I both had the same dream last night. I know this sounds weird, but I swear to God it is the truth. This morning, we were talking and then it happened. We both recounted having the same dream. In it, someone called me up to tell me I won a prize. Neither of us are sure which prize I won, but Jacob seems to think I won the Pulitzer. Well, nice to know one of us dreams big. Anyway, I was freaked out by this. Made me wonder if I had been talking in my sleep and somehow influenced his dream. So weird.

Tried to get my car detailed today. I know I am about to turn in the car, but I so hate the idea of turning in a dirty car. It makes me feel dirty myself, somehow. I know this is just me being obsessive-compulsive, but I feel the need to return the car in spotless condition. I have no idea why.

Stereotypes

So, Suzanne has this link at her blog that gives you a quiz to see what stereotype you were in high school. Well, I was shocked because my stereotype was Prep/Jock/Cheerleader. Gag, Heather! I have to say I was pretty mortified, but the more I thought about it the more I realized it wasn't that far off. I mostly hung out with Jocks and Cheerleaders in high school. For God's sake, I was one of those class leaders, and I have no idea why I ever got voted in as one of those leaders seeing I wasn't particularly social outside of the group I hung out with. I guess the reason I am shocked is that I am a totally different person today than I was in high school. College changed me or, more appropriately, doing college radio changed me! In college, I was one of those people who always wore dark clothes, had my own radio show, worked for the student art gallery, edited the Literary Magazine, etc. All the pre-med people thought I was a total weirdo. I know some people think we never change, but I would beg to differ. In High School, what stereotype were you?

No Lunch for You!

Well, little could I have predicted how busy I would be today. I ended up seeing 5 new patient consults, of which 2 were emergencies that had to be seen, set up for radiation and started today. I also saw one follow up who ended up having a new site with disease in it that had to get set up for start on Monday. Add to that 5 follow ups, 4 radiation setups, 3 patients on which I had to do radiation treatment plans, 4 patients on which to approve plans, etc. and you see why I ate no lunch today and have been going almost non-stop since 9 this morning when I posted what now seems like an utterly frivolous post about my new car. There are people with real problems in the world. I need to be more thankful for what I have.

I was really glad to see ADT posted a part of that wonderful poem by Cavafy, "Waiting for the Barbarians." I really do love Cavafy. There really is no one like him, in my mind. I also like these two poems they have at the Harvard web site.

Hope you all have a good weekend. Time to pack up and head back to the city.

It's Here!

Well, my new car arrived this morning, earlier than they had thought it would. I get to pick it up on Tuesday. I am so excited. Gunmetal gray exterior, Sand Leather interior with brushed chrome interior trim, automatic leveling xenon headlights, 4-way lumbar support in 12-way adjustable front seats, memory seats that remember how you like to sit in the car, a GPS assist function that if activated will call for service and locate your car immediately for the servicemen, 17 inch awesome cast alloy wheels, automatic dimming mood lighting, on-board 4 function computer, rain-sensing windshield wipers, moon-roof, 12-speaker surround sound CD stereo system, etc. etc. And of course, it has a 2.5-liter dual overhead cam (DOHC), 24-valve inline 6-cylinder 184-horsepower engine and Dynamic Stability Control to shift the torque as you drive to avoid losing control of the car. If it made me breakfast in the morning, I'd have to... Okay, I need to stop! God, this car is so amazing. I thought my current car was great but this newer model kicks some serious ass. I wonder if it can make me a latte.

The Wonders of Champagne

To cheer myself up tonight, I picked up Jacob from lab, and we went out to 2223 Market to grab something to eat. It was pretty good tonight. But maybe starting with a glass of champagne made everything seem better. Ever notice how champagne makes everything good (unless things are REALLY bad, and then it is so definitely not the drink of choice). We are so excited because it is now only 7 days until we fly off to Vegas for a long weekend. Vegas, Baby! Yeah! The gods of Baccarat are beckoning!

Pouting & Stamping My Feet

I am terribly jealous today. No, not of a poet or anything like that. I am jealous of two of my colleagues. One already owned a home in Menlo Park and recently sold it and was able to buy a home in San Francisco. I don't know why, but lately I really want my own home. I am tired of renting. Jacob and I both rent our places. But we don't have a downpayment, and here where an 1800 sq ft townhouse can run you $900,000, we definitely don't have a downpayment at all. And we are now paying for a wedding next year. I sometimes wish I lived in another city. If I were in Florida or somewhere else, I could buy a house easily on my doctor's salary. But here in SF, I can't right now. And this has me annoyed and jealous of my colleagues (who both joined this group after I did!). Anyway, I am thankful for what I have. I have a great job. I have someone to love and who loves me. I eat well and drink good wine. I travel sometimes. In many ways, my life is good. But damn it, I want a house!!!!! (I am pouting and stamping my feet, and might I say I do that well)

In All Beauty There Is Terror...

Clearly, I am home today from the hospital. And Alberto's recent post (and its comments) got me thinking again about Mahler. I love Mahler's music, more so than almost any other composer's. Jacob opened my ears to Brahms, but Mahler always holds a special place in my heart. Alberto recently listened to Mahler's First and was surprised to escape unscathed. But Mahler, to me, more than any other other composer, produced a music that is haunting, beautiful, and almost dangerous. His music is so dark, so passionate, so filled with awe and drama. I mentioned, in one of the comments over on Alberto's blog, my love of the Adagietto movement of Mahler's Fifth. I wanted to say some more about it.

The Fifth remains one of my favorite of Mahler's Symphonies. That opening alone is to die for: the funeral march, the horns, the music practically swirling around you as you listen to it. But that adagietto movement. It is exquisite in both its beauty and its pain. No other piece of music so conjures for me the feeling of heartbreak and despair. The strumming harp, the swelling violins, and that overwhelming sound of danger threading just below the surface. Mahler understood that in all beauty there is terror, and in all that is terrible, there is beauty lurking as well. Of course, you may think I am losing my mind writing this, but the truth is that Mahler is complicated, his music vast and, at times, beyond reproach or reason.

Less than an hour ago, I stood at my living room window staring out at the Pacific as the Adagietto played in the background. I cannot believe that I am the only one who when hearing this music is almost moved to tears. I once had a terrific argument with Jacob about Music and meaning. I argued fervently that music was in many ways the most pure art because it was beyond meaning. I argued that unlike Visual Art and Literature, Music simply existed, that it was not sullied by connotative meaning. In many ways, because poetry uses words, it may well be the dirtiest of all Art. Jacob held his ground, that music could be constructed to imply meaning, that it held emotive things within it based on the notes and their sequences. It was one of the most thrilling arguments I have ever had. As time passes, I realize more and more that he is right. Music may not use words, but it does appear to carry in it an emotional register. Mea culpa, Jacob. I was wrong.

What's Going On

There are some interesting things going on in the blogosphere. Here are few to check out:

1. Reb Livingston is out there. Yes folks, she is a stealthy cat burglar prowling through our blogs and stealing like nobody's business. She's done it to Tony Robinson and to Rebecca Loudon. And then, she goes on to talk about why she likes it long and lean. Hey, these aren't my words, but hers! On the C. Dale and Jacob scale, she gets Two Thumbs Up!

2. Peter Pereira has lost his mind. Dear God, he is trying to kill us all by prompting us to try the 20-minute villanelle. Gag, Heather! Just gouge my eyes out!

3. A.D.T. has returned to us from the wilderness. He is our new "Grizzly Adams". We all know he was really out in the woods jumping up and down--naked, of course--chanting lines from Leaves of Grass. Oh A.D., the things we do for poetry.

4. Rebecca Loudon wants a "big hunk" for dinner. What is up with the Rebeccas? Jeez, they are just insatiable!

5. And if whacking hasn't eaten up enough of your time, Aimee Nez has now introduced us to the world of "Make Your Own Freakin' Animal". Now, we can all be God and make those animals we always wished existed. Thanks, Aimee!

6. Ryan Wilson has returned from the abyss, only to gross us out with the Harry Crews quote of all quotes. As one who knew Harry Crews, this quote is only more frightning! Harry is an expert on gothic anything, but love? No, no, no, no, no!

As always, Reb Livingston isn't the only one prowling through your blogs!

Poison!

It is hard to believe I have been blogging for one month already. It seems like a long time ago that I started, and at times it seems like yesterday. I wish I were in Bodega Bay on a long weekend instead of at work. I was very sick last night: stomach cramps, nausea, vomited several times last night. I have a strong suspicion I got food poisoning from the hospital cafeteria yesterday. I ate what I thought was a healthy thing, a terriyaki salmon filet and some rice. Well, I am never eating it again! I am still nauseated and trying hard to hold it together at work. I think I need to go take some compazine tablets.