A couple of days ago, I met Baby George III, the fourth Bambi Muse baby despot, at the 9th Street Bakery for a chocolate treat.
“I want to publish a short story on HTML Giant,” snarled Baby George III, before I even had the opportunity to bite into my chocolate treat.
“But you’re a part of the cutest literary corporation ever. It’s built on the core principles of goth babies, bukakke babies, boy bunnies, and so on. Why don’t you publish it there?”
“No,” snapped Baby George III, firmly. “I want it to be on Blake Butler’s site. He’s so handsome and relentless. He’s sort of like Kurt Cobain, in a way.”
“Fine,” I sighed, since I did not wish to antagonize the future King of Great Britain any further. “What’s the name of your Christmas story?”
“A Baby George III Christmas,” sassed Baby George III. Then he added: “Obviously.”
I wrote an article about editing and some of my past favorite submissions (favorite as in “was this handwritten paper submission composed with human blood? ha ha. wait…no seriously look…this submission REALLY IS written in dried human blood, wash your hands!” or “poem about a snowflake written in the shape of a snowflake just in time for Christmas,” or “story from guy in prison who in his cover letter asks us to mail the money he’ll get if his story is published to the address of a given drug dealer below, explaining that the funds will be an installment payment towards the crack cocaine tab he’d accrued at the time of his incarceration” or even “travel back in time to kill Hitler only to end up falling in love/sexing him, so much sex that he becomes docile and happy, except you then get pregnant with his hitlerspawn who grows up to do exactly what his father would’ve done even though his name is Wilhelm, sometimes the best intentions don’t get the best results” favorite). But also about the pure, kitsch-less favorites as in “this story makes me see Pushcarts rain from the sky.”
Also, I will be reading this Saturday at Elliott Bay Book Company in Seattle at 7pm
Also, I keep trying to quit Taco Bell beef but it’s like that Taylor Dane song “Love Will Lead You Back.” Ain’t that the meximelt truth.
I tried to write a Christmas message in the sand this afternoon, but within twenty seconds…
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb,
Now leaves His well-belov’d imprisonment,
There He hath made Himself to His intent
Weak enough, now into the world to come;
But O, for thee, for Him, hath the inn no room?
Yet lay Him in this stall, and from the Orient,
Stars and wise men will travel to prevent
The effect of Herod’s jealous general doom.
Seest thou, my soul, with thy faith’s eyes, how He
Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth lie?
Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high,
That would have need to be pitied by thee?
Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go,
With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe.