Close encounter of the first kind: Joseph Massey in a chair in the Hilton bar.
The liquor was free or self-purchased or purchased for me by kind friends (thank you, P). Ingested: Raspberry vodka tonic (comment from the peanut gallery: “the gayest drink order ever”). Ingested: Dos Equis. Ingested: Cosmo on the rocks.
Tied in a knot: a cherry stem. The toy of garnishes.
Panelists are sometimes so named for their uncanny likeness to a stiff board.
Beauties: Juliana Spahr. Traci Morris. Joshua Clover.
Number of books purchased (as of 11:26 am): four. Two have been signed. Journals appropriated: Dislocate, Bat City Review, Cue, Rhino. Thank you to the adorable Mary Baddinger for the Rhino.
James Hall is my new hero. Did you ever know that you’re my hero? Also: big hearts for Jericho Brown, Laurel Snyder.
Number of pre-emptive panic attacks surrounding daydreams of my Saturday readings: three.
Number of near vomits due to same: one.
Number of times I’ve changed the poems to be read: three. Number of times I’ve hated every poem in the docket: three.
Number of times I’ve been asked, “Are you a good poet?”: Two. Number of times I’ve misheard this as, “Are you good in bed?” and responded with discussion: Two.
Floor on which I watched the season finale of Project Runway in the Executive Club lounge on a flatscreen TV courtesy of one of the kind Marys at the front desk: 25.
And, the perennial favorites: Eduardo, Rigo, C. Dale.
Reb is hot.
Aimee is a dream. Ali, I’ve been watching you from across the room.