They loved each other so much. When I only had one, he almost starved to death with depression. Only when I got him a companion... a one-eyed companion... did he find a reason to eat/live again. When they spotted each other through the murk of their tank from opposite sides, they would rush each other and make chirping noises through the water and MAKE LOVE, face to face, hugging tight, not caring who saw or heard their passion. It was so loud it woke me up sometimes. I will admit here and now that one time I got so turned on, I ended up doing it (with another human) after their ruckus woke me. They were shameless.

I think what happened was... I had two tanks. One for them to live in and one for them to hang in while the main tank was being cleaned. You couldn't use soap or chemicals. The water couldn't be too hot or too cold. They are equator creatures, after all. Well, my son sat on the second, empty tank and crushed it. So this time I plopped the two frogs into the bathtub while I cleaned their main tank. They died. Their mouths were hanging open. I think there must have been cleaner residue left in the tub. Who knew such fierce foes of all frogs but each other could be so sensitive, too? I had my kids release them into a pond, lying right into their trusting eyes that they were in a coma and would come back to life in the night. Like Cujo.

I had tears for my two little uncleanfreak guys. I didn't even cry when my grandma died. These two frogs were so far from home....

I loved NY in the '90s when I loved cocaine and dungeons and rainbows. Then in the '00s it got all dismal and money and gray. I just went again this week and it's back, brand new, another NY. An off-the-shoulder, sweaty, desperate in the most energetic way. I love it so much. I want to french-kiss it, and I really am not a tongue person. I got out of my car and a foreigner with greasy corkscrews grabbed me by both shoulders and said, "Michael Jackson is dead! An icon is no longer with me! I feel such sadness, and the universe shoulders my sorrow." We discussed the heart attack and Demoral for a minute or so, and then I asked him could he point me in the direction of Houston. I pronounced it like the city in Texas, and he said, "You're not from here, are you?" I said, "No, I'm from New Hampshire." He said, "You're from New Hampshire, I'm from Iran, and we have met together in this incredible city on Bowery Street at this exact, precious moment of sorrow. All forces have brought us together." And I felt that it was true! And you know what else? No forces bring ANYONE together in Dover. Ever.

And then it was in The Bowery and there were all these people signing. Deaf poetry slam.

And then our turn, and there was a fight between me and the Latina Lovah. She is very beautiful, and offered the judges fortune-telling fish. Suck up. Well, she read a good story. I want to know more. She was locked up while her manly woman had sex with someone else? I couldn't quite understand. I need to know more. Anyway, then it was my turn. There was swearing heckling. There were judges... Todd Barry from The Wrestler! I love him! Yet turned my back on him, because I love the people who are not yet anything, and he is something. I fear the successful, because I suspect they must be ossified. They must have something to lose. I spent all my time with this young girl, a writer who doesn't write. That's my favorite kind. And Gavin from Street Carnage. He, too, is successful, but that doesn't bother me because at least he destroys himself. All his misogynist and racist comments.... mentioning Asians when there were actual Asians in the room. Most white people won't mention Asians even when there ARE no Asians in the room. And putting my friend down over her lack of astuteness re. cravats. Ah, I love jerks. And the guy from Bloomsbury who looks like Ian Curtis and he didn't even know that! He only gets told he looks like Tobey McGuire. Golly, people are so YOUNG these days! Well there was fairly a riot spilling out into the street. These Australians told me I made revolution elegant. I thought that was the nicest compliment I ever got. I saw six girls in the back room who looked all of them like they were from The Hills. Are they models? Secretaries? How can such a thing EXIST? I saw men in all white suits. My one friend tried to steal me away from another friend, and a white suit man stepped in; he said, "The sleepover was prearranged. What you are doing now -- this stealing -- is not right or true." He said this out loud on the sidewalk. There was much confusion. Our parties split and were supposed to meet back up with the Australians but did not. Someone was in tears. We ended up in an art studio, but one member of our party went for pizza and there the Australians were. "We have Lisa's book," they warned ominously. "We will review it. We won't forget being stood up."

Threats. That's another thing that doesn't happen in Dover.

I forgot to mention going to Nerve and getting totally dissed by the receptionist, and my profound ire, and all that I learned. My hair got really greasy. I don't know if it was the humidity, or that I danced, or that I got so fucking mad at that receptionist. But it looked like I'd been dunked in the glaze vat at Dunkin' Donuts!

I love New York, oh I love you.

Early mourning nymphos.

The tears of whorey clown.

Would early mourning be like they were upset BEFORE their husband finally passed?

When you are bereaved, it is luck you need.

Oh, and she writes books, too, the gal I'm going up against. But that's not what a death match is about, I believe. Her mesmerizing skin is really something for me to fight against! Anyway, I'm thinking I have to add beyond mere words. I thought fireworks, but then it would be like that heavy metal band in Rhode Island and lost souls up in smoke would be on my conscience. So, can you help me out? I'm thinking if anyone has a litter of cute puppies, bring them, or maybe someone knows someone with a warrant and the police could crash my reading and drag them away... something cafe-dadaish... Schizophrenics, opium addicts.... I have my big speech all ready, but after I saw that photograph of that Felicia, I realized nothing I say could possibly be relevant enough. Books are places for words. Halls are for actions.

Punk literature I guess began with fanzines in 1976? And died... when? NEVAH! MRR is the undead!!!!!

Post-punk... 2005? And I'm thinking post-punk must have died in 2008 because...

Post-post-punk is referenced in 2008. Everything IS moving faster, because I think post-post survived only a single night. October 8th.

Please tell me where I'm wrong!

That boredom and anger are not primary emotions. They are reactions to, covers for, the real emotions.

Think about when you felt boredom or anger last. What was behind that? Give specific examples, please.