August 27, 2007

Ada Books is putting on another poetry party, Stranger. And this time, I really want you to come! Well, I wanted you to come last time, too. But you didn't. You had "stuff" to do. Okay. We all have stuff in our lives and that stuff demands to be done. But Stranger, was it good stuff? Because I've got some good stuff, here. And I'm just giving it away. This Saturday. September 1st. At 6pm. Two poets. Jon Woodward. Author of Rain. (Published by Wave Books.) And Ellen Kennedy. Co-proginator of Ass Hi Books. Also appearing. Snacks. Drinks. And our most especial guest: wit. Rearrange your schedule if you must. Forstall family outings. Come. Give yourself over to handcrafted verse. Or just get drunk on the free wine.

August 14, 2007

Stranger, I know it can be burdensome, always reading to yourself. The voice in your head never seems to change, does it? It's the same one you've had since your Dr. Seuss days, right? (Not that these aren't yet our Dr. Seuss days. Not that some days don't lend themselves to iambs and funny names.) I've got a cure for you. It's temporary but I think you're going to like it. It's poetry, out loud and in your ear holes! On August 17th, Ada Books and The Publicly Complex Reading Series Presents an evening of cheap wine and fine verse. The wine (and snacks!) will be provided by the management. The verse will be courtesy of John Cotter and Elisa Gabbert. You can find out more about Cotter at his website, www.johncotter.net. Elisa Gabbert has a book of poems called Thanks For Sending The Engine, a copy of which I have before me even now, thanks to Justin Marks at Kitchen Press. Here, I'll read one to you. (For this effect you need only to read the poem aloud while mimicing my throaty but handsome lisp.) It's called Blogpoem after Walter Benjamin. Every time you reproduce a piece of art /you remove some of its aura & that's why /your mix tape didn't impress me much, /it was so fucking aura-less /but in the film /version of the novelization of this poem /I play myself but have fantastic breasts /& there are probably some blood baths /& also when my fangy tooth catches /on my lip men everywhere crumple /w/ the ecstasy & agony of it & really /who needs aura in your movie when /you're so hot it breaks people's knees. Or listen to the poet herself (and himself) this Friday, at 7pm. Don't disappoint me, Stranger. For haven't I had a life's length of disappointment already?

August 13, 2007

Rhode Island is the last state in the union that still celebrates V-J Day, despite the fact that most of the soldiers who fought in that war are dead, including my grandfather who died not in the Pacific, but pacifically in a land-locked state out West, among the sage and the scrub and the Mormons. But I'm going to conform to this sixty-odd year observation and shut the shop today so that my wife and I can eat some Indian (food) and maybe take in a show. I hope, Stranger, that you do not mistake me for a warmonger or hater of the Japanese (people). I am merely a man taking advantage of an opportunity for sloth, like so many of my fellow Americans, good and bad.

August 6, 2007

I shouldn't be telling you this, Stranger, I should be letting you find out for yourself. But some secrets, insignificant though they may be, clamour to be spilled. So here it is: If you go to the homepage of this site and pass your arrow over Ada's lips, you'll see her scarlet smile. Click here and you'll go to Ardis. At Ardis's end, you'll find a photo of Nabokov, pugilisticating. Click him and you will find. . . Stranger, I can't do everything for you, can I?

August 1, 2007

Ada Books went to New York the other day. Some Strangers may have found this out after seeing the sign posted on the front door. (I hope my good name was not cursed, but judging from my typical Monday business, or simply business in general, there probably weren't many of you shaking your fists or hanging your heads on your chests.) My wife and I met up with some old friends in the City and in between luncheon and tea, we looked at some fine paintings by Egon Schiele (at the Neue Gallerie). I could wax ecstatic over the strange beauty of these paintings but I'll leave that to the throng of amateur and professional hagiographs out there. Schiele's work (and his ghost, if you believe in such things) doesn't need me to bury it ever deeper under adjectives, nor to gild it with superlatives. But I can do something for one of the friends I met up with the other day, Mitchell Long. He is an artist who lives in New Orleans, who paints New Orleans (mostly) but his work does not fall into the usual New Orleans traps (the traps being "party" colors, "fun" scenes, ill-defined and overworked "energy"). What his paintings do have is not for me to say (I'll only sound pompous if I try). But I like them and I think you might, too. Have a look here www.mitchell-long.com or just drop by the shop. I might have one of his pieces hanging here soon.