Apparently James Dobson doesn’t think Fred Thompson is a Christian, or at least he’s not Christian enough.

I have to admit, I love it when wingnuts start to eat their young. Dobson has already pulled this on McCain.

Who will be the next to get up with fleas?

“Um, guys? Is it getting a little warm in here?”

(I guess this explains why Steve asked me how to spell sauté and then giggled like a fool when I told him.)

I got a poem accepted by “Raintown Review,” by the guest editor Joseph Salemi.

I get so lazy about submitting that often the only thing that gets me moving is hearing word that a particular editor responds quickly.

(Which reminds me, I did the same thing when Mezzo Cammin came out. They were giving responses in a matter of days. I never did hear anything, even after two followup emails.)

Over on Gaz, people were talking about Dr. Salemi giving quick replies, so I jumped at the chance.

The moral of this story? Bad news, good news, tell me NOW.

(And if you know of journals that reply quickly, I’ll give you all the nickels I get from the “But that’s the point!” poets. Yeah, nuffink.)

I was reading a poem on a poetry board. It was in the style of a famous poet, or perhaps would be called a parody (at times, I find it difficult to figure out how people use those terms).

In any case, I loved the poem. It just delighted the pants off me. I wanted to comment on it, and found that I couldn’t offer a serious critique for two reasons:

1. I just loved it and didn’t care why, and
2. Because the poem was in the style of a different poet, or was a parody, I felt that any comment I could make would have been a waste of time for the poet.

I think that I discovered that I think of poetry as being the entire web of a person’s writing, not any individual poem. If I comment on a poem, it’s with an eye toward giving that poet as much insight as I’m capable of (which often isn’t much) to help them with the next poem, not with the one at hand.

That’s a foolish way of thinking. I didn’t even know that was my way of thinking until I said it.

The poem was awesome. I did tell the poet that. And then I got all slack-jawed and yokely.

On a message board I frequent, a woman said that she loved her friends and family, but if she could save their lives by donating blood, or bone marrow, or a kidney, she wouldn’t do it. Why? Because she’s scared of doctors.

Aren’t we all? Hell, even doctors are probably scared of doctors.

I’d feel more confident about the world if I hadn’t encountered so many crazy people in it.

Why is it that someone will write a boring poem about a boring topic, then when called on it claim that the boringness of the poem is the point?

Critic: The poem is dull and unremarkable.
Poet: That’s the point, that the subject is dull and unremarkable.

It makes me want to find a nice marble pillar to smack my head on.

And no, I am not going to point to examples. If you haven’t seen this for yourself, you should cherish your pristine eyeballs and rejoice. And send me a nickel.

Ben Francisco has been sent down, so I can stop singing.

I think if he gets a call up, I’ll call him Bennie.

Bigger news is that Cleveland’s #1 starter, CC Sabathia, took a line drive to the wrist. Ouch. I cringe for him and for my team.

Only a week and 2 days until Steve and I go to the home opener! Woo!

I’m doing NaPo. It’s Gabriel’s fault.

We have a plan. It’ll be fab.

It appears that the Republican party has finally fallen out of favor.

Now, perhaps, they can ditch the crazies and the wingnuts and the James Dobsons and perhaps work toward being reasonable people who don’t want to drop bombs on anyone who happens to be Muslim and/or gay? That’d be nice.

Cleveland has an outfielder named Ben Francisco who is tearing up spring training.

I see or hear his name, and am immediately singing like Tony Bennett.

It’s a curse.

I like the guy, but don’t want him to make the team, both because there’s another player I’d prefer makes it and also because singing that song is driving me insane.