The buzz continues for Crystal Gavel, as we all expected. Quality is as quality does, or something about a box of chocolate rabbits, whatever.
I again want to thank Amazon for the editorial work, though I think the last meeting was a bit, uh, strange. To put it plainly, they “bought me out.” They paid me a certain fee to NOT attend the meeting. Uh. OK. The fee was immediately put to 7 beers, 3 nacho platters, a smidgen of pharmaceuticals (legal, obviously), and a plane ticket to Arizona. I hope that was one hell of a meeting.
Now that my corporate partner and I have established a viable (and lucrative, even in these suicide times) literary magazine, we would like to announce THE FIRST ANNUAL ALEXANDRE POPE CRYSTAL GAVEL LITERARY PRIZE!!!
2. Here is how the contest works. Go to The Crystal Gavel. Read each published text (how they made it through our rigorous editorial process, I will never know or want to [You know how a hundred dollar bill feels slippery, a strange sheen–that is what we call in our industry grease]).
3. You will notice a question below each poem/story/essay/screenplay: WAS THIS REVIEW HELPFUL TO YOU?
Whatever piece you are voting as “BEST” please click YES. In 10 days folks, I–along with my corporate partner and her many accountants–will tally the most “HELPFUL” text in the magazine. This writer will be contacted, recognized, and awarded a substantial prize.
(If you want to add COMMENTS to the COMMENTS [holy meta-fiction!], go right ahead. We will read them. They will help us decide. We love everything in the world that is like champagne bubbles. They rise.)
We thank you.
One runner barefoot, one about to eat dust.
I ran 16 this morning. I wanted to go 20 but didn’t feel it. My Boston training has sucked. My L foot is acting up, my treadmill lift motor exploded. I am under-trained. You don’t want to run Boston under-trained. I will reap, reap, reap what I sow, sow, sow at Boston.
But I will be there, folks.
Go read your Abraham Lincoln. KGM is there. Daniel Boy is there and wow can that guy drink. I saw him drink 14 whiskeys in Chicago. He sang a pleasant song about plaque protection and did a jig in the way of North Pole, New York. (I just thought up a story about a hoary elf lured away from the crowd. Hold up, I am going to go write it.)
(OK, I’m back. It sucked.)
“It was 15 whiskeys.”
“Fuck off! Who are you? This is my blog.”
“I am the sound of heart-driven flowers for the funeral. I mean to say how to properly pack a bag with Xanax if about to take a flight. How to avoid the detections of your life…And he had 15 whiskeys. I was there.”