Last night was Probst's poetry reading, and of course I went to it, supportive little moppet that I am, and we went out drinking afterwards. It's been a while since I got drunk and maudlin, but boy howdy. I ended up in tears on the sidewalk in front of the bar, and feeling terrible about the things I was saying. Because I am, in fact, the attention whore that my more honest friends have always accused me of being.

So I woke up this morning, remembering my humiliation of last night, and I vowed to dress in all black, wear sunglasses to school, and try to be as invisible as possible. So I was already feeling crappy when I decided to get my stuff together and go run some errands. It was then that I noticed my wallet was missing.

Now, keep in mind here, I'm me. I'm the queen of misplacing things. I almost just assumed that I had pulled a Mo, and my wallet was just lying under my futon or at the bottom of my birdcage or someplace weird like that. But I had a funny feeling, so I kept looking. After an hour of frantic searching, I concluded that my wallet was really, truly gone.

When I realized that it was gone, I started calling my credit card companies. Sure enough, someone made purchases on my Discover card this morning. Since I was throwing clothes at my noisy ass parakeets for most of this morning and not, like, buying stuff, that person wasn't me. Fortunately, I was able to cancel my card and was told I wouldn't be liable for the charges.

When I called my second credit card company, Citibank, I got even better news. Someone tried to spend $150 at a Chevron station this morning (um, okay) and they tried numerous times but Citibank wouldn't let the charges go through. Something about it being far from my home address and over a certain amount of money, so they flagged it and wouldn't authorize the charges. Go Citibank!

Okay, and here's where I started congratulating myself. I have about five credit cards, but I only carry two of them. I carry a Discover card that I use all the time (it's got a cash back thing) and a Visa, in case places don't take Discover. So even though I had to cancel two credit cards, I have three spares.

More panic hit when I realized that my check card was in there. I have some overdraft protection that covers up to $500 of overdraft. So they could have really cleaned me out. I called Washington Mutual (the bank of the overly chirpy ATMs) and to my absolute shock, their customer service number just disconnected me. The automatic message said, "We're sorry, we can't take your call right now, please try again later." I was just irate--my card was stolen for crying out loud, this was an emergency, and I get "try again later"? By the time "later" got here, some asswipe could have bought himself a big screen TV with my money, all because of Washington Mutual and their shitty customer service.

So I went to the bank and the people there were, as usual, helpful and nice. And no, the thief hadn't tried to use that card. But I swear, I would have canceled my account right there just out of anger at that customer service message, except that I can't. My mother transfers money to me between our Washington Mutual accounts, and it won't work otherwise. So, you know, never mind. But if you're looking for a new bank, don't go to Washington Mutual. They suck.

Further panic set in when I realized I now have no driver's license, yet I am supposed to get on a plane on Friday. There's no way I'm getting on a plane in these days of hyper vigilant security without a license. So I panicked for a while about that, and then realized I have a passport.

So, two hours later, I've canceled all the cards, and made an appointment to get my license replaced. I've also made an appointment to take my car to the mechanic tomorrow. Keep this in mind, because later, this becomes very ironic.

When I got to school, Joey was there, and she was in an equally horrific mood. So we bitched and whined and groused and complained and vented to each other, and somehow, I felt better. Probst showed up and, possibly noticing that I was doing my best to sink into the ground in embarrassment whenever he was around me, he came up to me and basically conveyed, "everything's totally fine between us." That made me feel much better.

I also felt better when I recalled my sunglasses. You see, last night I bought these orange, Charlie's Angels circa nineteen seventy two, feathered hair, black frame sunglasses . My friends tried to convince me that they were hideous, but I decided they were so hideous that they transcended hideous, and became cool. Plus, I had pearl frosted lipstick on. I was already in 70s mode. They just worked for me.

It was extremely gratifying that from that point forward, everyone I saw--classmates, strangers-complimented me on my sunglasses. The consensus is that they are "fuckin' awesome." And to think, I almost didn't get them. In which case I wouldn't have the cool sunglasses, and the fucker who stole my wallet would have ten more of my dollars.

So I went to class, blah blah, and to the bar to play some pool, and blah. I left the bar promptly at seven-I absolutely had to get home on time to see the premiere of my most anticipated show of the season, and possibly my life, Enterprise. You see where this is going, I'm sure.

My car wouldn't start.

There may have been tears. There was definitely cussing. Because I have priorities, I called Probst immediately to make sure he would tape the show for me. Then I called AAA Roadside Assistance. "What's your member number?" they asked. "I don't have my card." I said. "That's okay! You can use your license." "Well, see, that's the thing. It's a funny story, really..."

Fortunately, AAA gives good customer service, and they came out anyway. The guy who came out tried to jump start my car. It didn't work at all. So he had to push it out of its small parking spot, and tow it to this repair shop nearby. I don't know anything about repair shops in the city, so he recommended a place and I said sure, fine, whatever.

I haven't been to this area of San Francisco before. But it contains this auto mechanic shop that is straight out of the Twilight Zone. The guy behind the counter didn't even look up at me, he just pushed some paperwork across the counter. And then this other guy stalked out of the garage, wiping his greasy hands on a towel, speaking words that were ostensibly English, but sounded more like demonic mutterings.

Did I mention it was creepy? Well it was. It was just this tiny, musty room, complete with a broken fan on the table and a black and white TV in the corner. And, because I had no choice, I left my car with these people.

I have a strange feeling I will never see it again.

So then the tow truck guy drove me to the BART station, which was very nice of him. It was the "Balboa Park" BART station, which I have never been to before and which I'll never find again, because it probably doesn't even exist.

Then I had to wait a half an hour for the train and spend forty five minutes getting to my own home stop. Keep in mind that I had to mad pee at this point, and the only thing I'd eaten since my breakfast bagel was a completely flat granola bar which I had fished out of the bottom of my bag.

I live about half a mile from the BART station, so I walked home through the dimly lit streets as briskly as possible. On the way, I stopped at Nation's to get some gross french fries and a really delicious strawberry milkshake.

As I walked the rest of the way home, I realized that me, my family and my friends are all alive, well and safe. So yeah, I had a shitty day. But as long as I can still walk down the street enjoying a strawberry milkshake, things couldn't possibly be that bad.

I have so much to say regarding poetry. I've been saving it all up for a week. I guess I will just touch on a few things, though, here and in the sidebar.

I was going to write an entry the other night, but we had a huge electrical storm and the power went out. (I sat in my car for half an hour and watched these huge bolts of lightning arc across the city. I love lightning storms, and this one was spectacular.) I ended up doing my homework and taking a shower by candlelight. Very cool.

But what I wanted to say was that my class on Monday ruled. Last week, I feel like I lost control of the workshop a little bit, and my lecture was somewhat threadbare. This week, my lecture (on figurative language) was interesting, I facilitated some good discussions, and then the workshop went very well. I am learning how to be a better teacher. Every week I learn something new, and it's so exciting. It's every bit as amazing as I thought it would be.

I do have one problem student; I can't talk about it much here, obviously. But part of my class is the writing of a weekly journal paragraph, and this student does not seem inclined to do this assignment at all-so I have to figure out how to handle that. But overall, I feel good about the direction we're going and the dynamic we've established.

Next week's lecture (which I am supposed to finish preparing tomorrow, I guess in between walking to the DMV and trying to get my car back) is shaping up well also. It's on rhyme and meter, and I feel like I have many constructive things to say about rhyme.

My students are so bright and such a great group of writers. I hate to say this, but I got a batch of work from my graduate workshop, supposedly my peers, and I think some of my students do much better work then some of my classmates. It's wonderful to have real talent to work with.

And I love giving my students advice! They write down things I say, and buy books on my recommendation, and read poets that I specifically suggest that they read. Their work is improving because of my guidance. It's really something. It's so rewarding.

Along the same lines, my friend Open had such nice things to say about me tonight. I offered to critique some of his stuff (he's not in my workshop) and he said that it meant a lot to him because I'm one of the writers he respects most in the program. He likes the way my mind works regarding poetry, and how well crafted my poems are. I was so touched.

More validation: I got asked to speak at a reading that the Writing and Consciousness Program is doing, featuring well-known poets from Los Angeles, along with some students or something. I don't know exactly. (They probably chose me because I'm the only poet in the program from L.A., but I'll take my validation where I can get it. It's a good opportunity nonetheless.)

I do know that Monday, October 15, the day of this reading thing, is going to be a nightmare day. Particularly if I do end up going to Journalcon. There's a strong possibility that I will land at the airport in the east bay, drive into the city, teach my class, drive back to the east bay, take my Pound class, drive back into the city again, do this reading, and go back to the east bay again.

Today, I read a poem in class that got a great reception. And yesterday I had a good response on a poem that I workshopped in my graduate class. It's funny to be on the other side of the workshopping process-now I know how my students feel, waiting for people to say "loved it" or "hated it" or hopefully something more specific. It's been a while since I was in a workshop like that. But I got some compliments and some interesting suggestions, most of which I will probably ignore.

I haven't posted poetry in a while, so maybe I'll close on some poetry. The first one is the fun little piece I turned in for class today (I wrote it at four in the morning) after reading all about sexual modernism.

The second one is the one I workshopped in my graduate class, and I think it represents, as Hannah says, a new direction my poetry is going in. Which is a lot to ask of one little poem, so maybe it's best if you just read it and decide for yourself.

Twenty First Century Bohemian Woman

I agitate in favor of the first person and the present tense. Oh great-great granddaughters: this is my legacy.

Yogurt with blueberries? Or no yogurt, just blueberries? Each day is a confrontation of decision and question. The mop is standing in the corner. Would this be an appropriate moment for mopping?

Dear men, dear twentieth century, dear boyfriend. I loathe myself, but I loathe you more. And somehow, still, I adore us both. I don't know how I manage this.

Have you seen today's TV commercials? They never show a guy gleefully exclaiming over the brightness of his whites, sighing with relief at a streakless window or peeing his pants over the cleanness of a dish. Instead, he sits down, dressed in a suit, and a delighted woman puts hamburger helper in front of him. I always wonder: what did she do all day?

When we get married, I will take your name. But after that, what will they call you?

I wake up late and stay in bed, reading erotic novels and smoking cigarettes. It is midnight before I remember that earlier today, the polls were open.

I'm afraid that if I keep on smoking, before I know it, I will have taken up smoking.

There are no female names. There is only the feminine form of _________ or the name of your paternal grandfather.

I open the door of a nondescript storefront and walk inside. I purchase three pornographic videos, a bottle of lubricant and a bright green vibrator.

It is early in the morning, it is a hundred years later, and nothing much has changed.

If only you knew how to move your body, I could love you.

the real "God"

there's something about
waking up in the morning
that makes him nauseous

in the brothel
he chooses the ugliest woman
and pays her to reject him

she never ran away
from home, believes in snowpeas
juice (fresh squeezed) and Jesus

in her pockets: percocet,
blistex, aspirin, prozac,
xanax, sunscreen, tampax

together, they walk the blade edge
where shadow slices light, and
the reptilian brain takes charge

or the divine brain:
a perfectly white, circular balloon
missing its string,

drunk, they trade bills:
an assortment of ones, tens and
fifties, by keeping their eyes closed

they create the new way
of the world, recycling, making love,
systematically reading the classics-

meanwhile, the real God
lives in New Zealand, where nobody
bothers her, and sells a great deal of wine

"She eats my necklaces. She pecks at my toes. Occasionally she nibbles on my ear, and it tickles, until she attacks my neck with a bloodthirsty eagerness. She looks fluffy and innocent, but somewhere, deep down, she's an evil Alfred Hitchock bird of death. I just know it. "