Bitterness revisited; rabbi redux

Cindy Sheehan is preparing herself for arrest tomorrow outside Bush's ranch in Crawford, and I'm pissed off that people don't thank me enough? Very sad indeed.

Anyway, I've been thinking about that lack of thanks I received from the editor and publisher of Word when I handed in my snort of resignation last month. I was unfair: my editor thanked me several times as I handed in columns over the years; the publisher inserted free ads for my various events in lieu of payment.

Somehow, I'd just been wanting a big final thanks, I guess, but you can't expect people to respond, gratitude-wise, in the exact way you happen to emotionally need it at a given moment.

I'm off to Centauri tomorrow and frantically trying to tie up loose ends and finish projects before I push off. It's hopeless: I won't finish everything before noon. And I got a call today from the agent who wants to see my novel. I've ignored his last two emails because I just couldn't deal with it. We had a nice chat, though, and I'm going to send him 70 pages of it this weekend. I told him that if I don't, he could have all my money, the pick of my poetry books, and my girlfriend, and he could kick me in the ass. I don't think my girlfriend would appreciate being part of this transaction.

I want to write about an amazing chapbook I received from a fantastic, largely unpublished New York poet named Kim Bernstein. But I don't have time to write about it now.

And I want to write about this crazy, anarchic, fascinating CD I received from Steve Rox, a Canuck who lives near Seattle. But I don't have time to write about it now.

My kingdom for seven bonus hours on August 10, seven hours to get things done.

Over and out.