Curse You, Hayes Code, for Killing Good Movies Forever

Yesterday I got 5500 hits for no reason, which is maybe normal for blogs that aren't about Wallace Stevens, but to us represents something of an anomaly. It turns out Urlesque linked to a baby nightclub remark I made a while ago, erroneously assuming it to be a joke. FACT CHECK: Open your eyes, Urlesque; baby nightclubs are real, and I can prove it. Fix your gaze on my favorite Baby Burlesk of all, Glad Rags to Riches, which was tragically unavailable when I made my previous post. Take particular notice of the trick pickle that shoots juice directly into Shirley's ear!

Mark Strand Has Been Eating Poetry

I just got my little letter from the 92nd St Y, congratulating me on my status as semifinalist in the Discovery/Boston Review contest. Nice! That's the contest where I signed my cover letter "Extremely warm" instead of "Sincerely yours." Ultimate mistake, my readers, or else...ultimate advantage. Assuming the latter, next year I will sign myself:

Fetally yours,
Ur mom
P.S. I DON'T EVEN WANT TO WIN

Here Is Your Valentine

Your mistress is sick as a hound; she will return in a few days when she is feeling better. In the meantime, please enjoy these pictures of her helping a child to the vision of a Rex,















and savoring the flowers she received on Valentine's Day.















The note read:

COULDN'T HAVE NEGOTIATED THAT BUSINESS DEAL WITHOUT YOU!

LOVE,
BLON
KERST

The name should have read BLONKERST, obviously, in honor of a famous local person who recently died. If you think it's too good to be true, get ready: BLONKERST was her first name. All her sisters have names like Cindy. It may have been what killed her.

Post Title Heryer

Oh, Palm Beach Post. This is awkward. Did you notice anything...unusual about your front page yesterday?
















Anything at all?

Bad Try, People, and Also Thank God

Only thirteen people expressed a desire to see my body poisoned with CLAM CAKES, so instead you must be content with pictures of me dressed as a pirate,






















sipping a drink that I erroneously believe to be "tropical,"

















making Robert Frost faces in front of his cottage, spanking trespassers with a rolled-up poem,






















standing in the shadow of the most awe-inspiring Jesus statue ever sculpted--his eyes are literally black burrows where the badger Judgment hides,






















observing the cat Archibald, who spends all day bathing himself on Hemingway's bed because he is a king,

















and gazing at pages of meadow-porn, spilled from the filthy fingers of one John James Audubon.






















Clam-clamorers, can you be content with these?