(Sigh) Yes, I know, the world isn't out to get me personally. It just doesn't give a fuck. About anyone. It's not capable of giving a fuck. But sometimes despite that you manage to get some people together and have a really good time.
I had a reading last night here in Chicago, at Bucket O' Blood Books and Records in Logan Square, the only place in town that wasn't too scccccchicken to let me read, and a cool-stuff emporium that makes me wish I had more disposable income and free time (never a likely combination). We had poetry from Marc Ruvolo, my reading from NVSQVAM, a bit from my as-yet-unpublished sci-fi book LYFE, and two good friends, Joanne Von Alroth and Benjamin Capps, who both turned out to have some absolutely amazing stories to read.
I don't just mean that in the disgusting 'my fwends are awwwwww geniuses!' way that some of my former overlings at the Chicago Reader would say it, I mean it in the, 'seriously, I had a fun fucking time listening to these guys, and I got all sorts of compliments on how I really know how to put together an evening's entertainment' way.
Attendance was low, as it is at these things; but it was high for these things. Ruvolo, the owner of Bucket O' Blood Books and Records and an excellent Gorey-esque poet--at my request he read his twisted, hilarious poem "The Lidded Box" to kick off the evening; check it out in THE GOTHIC BLUE BOOK, a local anthology of creepy-ass lit--says for a reading in a bookshop it was a smash hit.
So here I am, enjoying my day off from the angry shtick. I deeply appreciate everyone who did trek out to Logan Square, and also those who live in Logan Square and forewent or postponed the many other entertainment options available in that neighborhood, and also thank you to the friends who expressed their regret that they were unable to make it. Thank you for coming, TGGP, and thanks to my sister Liz and my old friend Brendan O'Mara for both bringing chums out to discover my sick little world! Ben needs to compile a collection of his off-the-wall Max stories. Joanne, already a noted journalist, needs to write more fiction. That's all. Good times. Good night.
