Somehow I've been Fenagled (is that even a word?) into going to poetry night at Jammin Java. If it were not Carrie doing the fenagle-ing, I'd say "No way. I did my time with those things my freshman year of college."
As it is her 15 year sexually confused nephew wants to go and read about being the only Bisexual Goth African American Kid at his school. How could I possibly pass that up? I consider myself way too cool to be seen at any place with the word "Jammin" (or for that matter "Java") in the name, but I'm willing to pretend to be Dr. Kinsey and say it's research.
Besides it may be kind of nostalgic. I remember when I thought I wanted to hang out in coffee shops, wear black turtlenecks, smoke incessantly and read crappy poetry. Really, if it weren't for Russell Simmons Def Poetry Jam I would have lost my faith in spoken word all together.

Sidebar, I should really know better.
I drank a whole bottle of champange for no reason at all saturday and decided it would be a good time for self-portraits. And calling all my friends and telling them how much I looooove them.
Seriously, what was I thinking??? I love champange but its definitely one of those moderation things. Most people complain about the skull-splitting headaches they suffer from champange. I have the mind-raping dreams as a side effect.
Here is the one from Saturday night:

There was this little old lady named Madge, she looked a little bit like the Bali Hai lady from South Pacific. Madge was a coke dealer who was trying to hide drugs in my gas furnace, which has been ornamental for about a year now. When I refused she stole my Cat.
I woke up yelling "noooooooo!" Darth Vadar Sith-style, heart pounding. I went over to the papsan chair that my cat has proclaimed his bed and woke him up with lots of kisses on his furry little head. Let that bitch try to take my cat. I'll go all midevil on her ass.

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