Wow. This is some election. "Unpresidented" is right.

Despite the historical significance, I really don't want to talk too much about it. In fact, I was reading submissions for the literary magazine today, and one of them started off with a line about congress or the constitution or something. I scribbled a little note saying "I can't handle politics right now" and stopped reading right there. The fact that the Shrub is probably going to win is... well. You know. You all know.

Just two things, though.

First of all, last night was incredibly exciting. Before the poetry reading, I was in the computer lab, obsessively checking MSNBC and CNN. During the breaks between readings, I called Laurie, who was glued to the election returns at home. We kept updating the numbers on a big chalkboard at the front of the room. When I left, I listened to the news on the radio. In line to get dinner, I heard that Bush had won. By the time I got home, it had been rescinded. Laurie and I were on the phone until three in the morning expressing disbelief. It had to be the most exciting, frustrating, tense, exhilarating night of my life as a politically aware being. Amazing. I heard Clinton's quote today, that after this election, nobody can ever claim that their vote doesn't count. Amen, my brother.

Secondly, I was talking to Toker tonight at the local bar. He said, "I saw George Bush on TV today, and his face had the most real expression I have ever seen on it. Pinched, angry... like a spoiled little brat who didn't get what he wanted." Heh. That's Dubya to the core, isn't it?

As for Shrubya being our next president (which is, let's face it, probable), Columbine said it best in this entry. Amen, my sister.

But let's talk about something else now, shall we?

The poetry reading last night was great. Not because the featured readers were good, and not because of all the election excitement, and not because we had some musicians come in and play a couple of tunes. No, it was because I read a poem.

I read two poems actually, "suicide note" and "The Taco Bell Manifesto." It was momentous, not because I haven't read my poetry before (I have) but because the poems I chose to read are kind of outrageous. It takes a certain kind of ballsiness to pull them off. And I did it! I wasn't even drunk. I had one glass of wine early in the evening, and that's it.

"Suicide note" is a short one, but it's an interesting persona poem. It was written by my alter ego, jackson assisi. (I wrote a short series of poems under this alter ego a while back.) If you are really desperate to read the poem, I'll send it to you. Basically, the speaker is about to kill himself, and he wants the world to blame Celine Dion for his death. It's not great, but it reads well. I got a lot of laughs, and applause, and it was quite encouraging.

Then I read "The Taco Bell Manifesto" which is longer, and more outrageous. (You can read this poem here.) I mean, it has lines in it like, "Our cocks touch at the tips" and "I chewed off my mother's nipples." See what I mean? You have to have balls to deliver this shit. I've only read a few times, and each time, I've been nervous as hell. But last night, for some reason, I wasn't that nervous. I was so on. I was money, baby.

I got laughs at all the right places, and cheers, and wild applause. The crowd went crazy. I got a little nervous at the end and didn't pull it off quite as perfectly as I could have, but I don't care. I still pulled it off.

Afterwards, Toker (the moderator) got up and said in this awestruck voice, "That is why we do this." What a great thing to say. He spent today bragging about the reading of my poem, and he told me I was "fucking incredible... you brought the house down."

I probably owe a lot to Toker. Last time I read, he said I did well and said that the crowd responds to energy. I guess he was right. I tried to choose poems with a lot of energy, and I read them with feeling. I took risks in delivering the material, and I did it theatrically. I didn't know I had it in me.

Joey told me that I would get addicted to reading my own poetry. After my first reading, I thought she was wrong. I mean, I was nervous and I trembled through the whole thing. It was okay, but not addictive by a long shot. But I've been learning. Each time I've read, it's gotten a little better. I've been smarter about choosing my material. (Lines like "I am not afraid of a homosexual cock" are crowd pleasers for sure.) And somehow, I pulled off a great reading.

I can't wait to do it again!

More progress on the crush front.

Today, I went to the bar with some people after class, Mickey among them. We didn't really get to talk that much (too bad, so sad) but he was one of the group of people who walked me to the BART station. As I was leaving, he said, "Hey, call me if you're ever in the city. I'd love to hang out with you sometime. We can go get a drink or something."

I don't want to make too much of this standing invitation. Laurie and I were talking, and she told me that he invited her to stop by his place whenever she was in the neighborhood. He's just a friendly guy like that. Lest you think he was propositioning me or something; he wasn't.

Regardless, like I said, I don't actually want to have sex with him. I just want to hang out with him. Stare into his liquid green eyes. Maybe touch his arm casually once in awhile, or walk side by side with him in the cold. That's not too much to ask, is it?

"Speaking of dumbing down, the most irritating, annoying, heart-clawing example that comes to mind is the movie version of Little Women. "