This should come as absolutely no surprise-- the novelty of making lattes and mopping floors was bound to wear off eventually. But there are a number of things that are specifically grating on me, that have nothing to do with the novelty wearing off factor.

For instance: I keep getting scheduled for closing shifts, which wipe me out. I keep getting scheduled at the Berkeley store, which I like a lot less than my other store. I haven't been working enough hours to get benefits, and that doesn't seem likely to change. My store stopped stocking the turkey pannini sandwich, to which I am addicted.

Mostly, though, it's that I feel like I am at work all the time, and yet my actual hours worked, and my paycheck, tell a far different story. How can I be so busy, and yet so impoverished? So, yeah, I'm over it. I'm going to start looking into other ways to make me some money.

One way would be if I end up teaching the course (Introduction to Writing Poetry: A Workshop) I proposed for next fall's Humanities undergraduates.

I finished the proposal and sent it to my advisor, who sent me some excellent suggestions for tweaking it, and said it was "good and comprehensive" overall. I believe she would have told me if it was otherwise; she seems fairly honest and straightforward. And this is good, because she is one of the three people that is reviewing the proposals. So if she likes it, I'm one third of the way to where I need to be.

I made the adjustments and gave the proposal to Alexander Hamilton (the program director).. I have one other professor to give it to, and then I just have to sit back and bite my nails, and wait to hear back from them.

Joey heard back almost immediately on hers, but her news was not so good. She was told that her concept was "too advanced" for undergraduate students. And I feel bad about this, because originally, she wanted to teach a workshop. She sort of stepped aside so I could propose a workshop, and she could do something else. It looks like "something else" is not going to happen for her, and I'm sorry about it. I feel guilty.

But not guilty enough to uncross my fingers. I really, really, reallyreallyreally hope I get to teach it. They don't actually pay much money, but it's about the same amount I'm making being a Minion, so what the hell.

The most important element of the whole thing is the experience. This, teaching college students, is what I want to do with the rest of my life. And, as Harry Burns once said, I want the rest of my life to start as soon as possible.

Laurie's poetry reading was last night. She was wonderful, of course, and she looked lovely, of course. Wayne also read, and he did a great job. He burned some spoken word CDs for the occasion, and I immediately bought one. (So did the other guys on the staff of the magazine, bless their hearts. We stick together.)

After the reading was over, I read one of my poems at the open mic. It looks like that was my last chance at an open mic before my own feature. Toker (who is the emcee for these poetry readings) made sure to plug my feature reading, in April.

Later, Toker and I were talking about my feature, and he begged me to read for 45 minutes. (Which is standard, but every feature reader this semester has been reading for about fifteen.) I talked him down to 30 minutes. I can't imagine keeping everyone's attention for 45 minutes. I said, "Toker, everyone would be bored." He said, "Mo, you're not a boring poet." As much as I appreciate the compliment, I still don't want to be up there for 45 minutes.

I'm still scared to death, and planning to be drunk off my cookies when I do my reading, but I'm also starting to think that it will be fun, and wishing that all my friends from Los Angeles could come up and hear me read.

I already started picking out my poems, and they contain lots of profanity and humor, which is always popular. Plus I've been getting such great response at the last open mics that it's bolstering my confidence.

I forgot to tell you what one of Joey's friends said to me, possibly the most bizarre compliment I have ever received. He said, "I really enjoyed the poems you read. You know, once I was with this girl, and we were walking down the street, and she said she had to pee. And I said, 'Well, pee, then.' And she pulled her skirt up and peed, right there in the middle of the street. Your poems made me feel just like that." I have no idea what this means, but it was delivered in the manner of an enthusiastic compliment.

I owe a huge thank you to Mickey, too. After I read my poem last night (it was a revised version of "Candle" which I posted the other day) I looked out in the audience and I saw him with his fist in the air, cheering louder than anyone. Maybe I can repay him in the form of a big wet sloppy k-- uuh, sorry. Muscle spasm. As I was platonically saying, I'm happy, in an innocent way, that Mickey's going to be at the reading because, in an innocuous manner, he seems to like my work.

I got another great compliment. Toker came up to me and said, "Man, that poem makes me fucking hot." I said, "Yep, that's just what I was going for." Dude, he cracks me up. It was even funnier when I turned around, and ran right into his fiancée. Oops. Well, at least she was smiling.

As I told my notify list, our literary magazine is now on its way to the printers. I am so proud of this magazine, I can't even begin to tell you. I think it's wonderful. I think it's a swell little publication. I am puffed up, parakeet-like, with pride.

It holds together really well thematically. I think the art and photography are well selected to mesh with the surrounding poetry. I am proud of the cover I designed, the poetry I wrote, and the photographs that I took that are all in there. I am proud of my cousin Lucy and journalers Joanne and Chuck, who all have work in the magazine. I'm proud of Laurie and Joey and Deb, who have their work in the magazine.

Most of all, I am proud of us. Wayne and Probst and Toker and Open and me. We did everything as a cohesive unit, and each of us contributed something significant to the final product. I am proud of our editorial standards and our sensibilities. I'm proud of our decisions, and our sense of humor, and our equanimity. And I'm so, so proud of the bond that we have formed as a group.

I was thinking about this the other day, these conflicting emotions, how thrilled I will be when I finally hold a copy of the book in my hands, and how hard I'm going to cry at the publication party, knowing that the process is over. Because I love the magazine, and I love the guys I work with. Really and truly, I love them.

All this mush aside, several people have expressed interest in acquiring a copy of the magazine. I'm pleased as all hell that people are interested. I'm very proud of it. (Did I mention I'm proud? I think I may have been vague about my feelings.)

The magazine is coming out in mid-May. The cover price is ten dollars, and I'm guessing shipping will be a few bucks extra. But it's worth it. It's 160 pages of the highest quality poetry and photography in the free world. (And as a bonus, everyone's real name is going to be in it. It's the field guide no stalker should be without.) I will find out exactly how you can order a copy, and let you all know.

And now, we just get to sit back and coast until May. The rest of the semester will consist of no working at all, just eating bagels, drinking wine, talking poetry and planning the release party.

Life is goddamn sweet, sometimes.

"They also told 'anecdotes' in between every poem that went like this. 'Hey, man. Remember, in the 60s, when you and me, and JIM MORRISON, did acid?' 'Yeah, man. Remember when JIM used to read us poetry? In the 60s? JIM MORRISON?' 'Remember when you and me and JIM smoked lots of pot? You know, in the 60s?' 'I remember that JIM really liked your pathetic poetry. JIM MORRISON, man.'"