a grouse with completely feathered feet


I just lurve undead shows. Undead means you're kind of alive, but also kind of dead. Non-dead doesn't have quite the same ring to it, though Evening tells me it is more accurate.

ANYway, the Drew Carey show. Late Night with Craig Kilborn. Just Shoot Me. No one watches them, no one promotes for them. They are the latchkey zombies, the kid waiting on the end of the bench on the bus terminal, with a knowing look. It's not a nice look. These shows are surly, dispeptic ghosts. No one loves them. But they exist. Kind of. How many times has this happened before? It's brutal. It invokes pathos. Does anyone remember the last season of Caroline in the City? Murphy Brown? And yet the film is there. They existed. Kind of.

I'm getting ready for a big diatribe on giving-90-million-dollars-to-Poetry-magazine-lady. Hypergolem and I are confering, comparing notes. Fuck. Was she drunk? No, no, but I must contain myself, gather the evidentiary.

Theme park. The Poetry Channel. Seed money for small mags. But Poet-fucking-ry?


("Get the clamps, Quail," someone calls in the background.)


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