#pub date

[starker-sorbet]

Tony and Peter spending a night at the pub

[spareisms]

tidings and cheer :  pub run

“Fancy a drink, fiance?”

He blinks down at her, taken aback, but the look on her face emboldens him. He squeezes her hand in his, a smile touching his face. “After you, fiance,” he answers, and lets himself laugh as she drags him towards the warmth of the pub.

:: @princewished my dearest love my darling dear

She beamed at Aladdin and then turned against the bristling winds, her smile carried them to the entrance and inside, staying on her lips all the while. But her thoughts grew troubled with their conversation, with her quick mistake. Maybe he hadn’t noticed her slip up. Maybe her suggestion, accompanied by the official title of Aladdin’s, well, relationship -- maybe those things bolstered the night enough to where her faux paus would be forgotten. He seemed ok, right? Freezing, but ok? He was smiling, right? Oh, god.

How stupid of her. Seriously of all the romantic rules to break, even in arranged marriages or engagements or anything -- how could she have talked about her ex on what was basically one of their first real dates? 

Mortification? Oh, this went way beyond that. Anna could feel the sting of embarrassment flood her face, the sickeningly sweet dread settle in her stomach. Her smile faltered for a moment  as they breached the building, her leading so he couldn’t see it. Why would she think that was an acceptable topic in the first place? She was suddenly grateful for the ice and chill. At least it would hide her burning cheeks.

She let out a sigh as the warmth of the pub invaded their senses, and for a moment her worries about words said was gone. The honey -soft light of a mulled pub was enough to subdue any anxious feelings -- and enough of a distraction, she hoped, from her letting go of his hand and slipping off her outer layers.

“Welcome to ALF’S,” she said, making a small gesture around and waving lightly at some who caught her eye. “Alf is the bartender,” she told Aladdin in a hushed tone, and she turned to lead the way, him following behind and looking much less frost-bitten. 

Poor Aladdin, she thought, and her brows crinkled in her worries. It if hadn’t been so cold then maybe he’d be more comfortable. Maybe it would matter if she’d let loose unbecoming secrets. Was he even having a good time? She knew her thoughts were circling around one another, angry crows, lighting, what a maddening crowd. She marched towards her favorite booth in the back.  

“Is this okay?” She asked Aladdin as they reached the corner. Nobody could really see them, as their small section was semi-hidden in a niche along the back wall. They could see out, but it was harder -- especially with the draperies, wooden shelves of golden liquors, and flags from all manner of countries obscuring the far wall as well.  “I like this booth,” Anna admitted, sliding into the seat. She felt as though she could see everyone in the pub -- something she liked, watching people -- and that nothing that happened could surprise her. 

“I like this whole pub, actually,” she continued. “It’s...warm, and inviting and..” she shrugged, struggling for the right expression. “I don’t know -- I feel like I don’t have to be a princess here, you know?” 

[chenchenwrites]

My book is officially one today! Happy bday, book!!

When I Grow Up I Want to Be a List of Further Possibilities has surpassed its fifth printing. I'm not sure exactly which printing it's in now (I think seventh?), but my thanks & my love to BOA Editions for all the continued support & enthusiasm. Thank you, Jericho Brown, for selecting my book for the A. Poulin, Jr. Poetry Prize. What a gift, to get to work with you on this book, back when it was a big-hearted big mess of a PDF file. It's got shiny covers now, but if anything, the heart is stronger.

Since last April, I have done almost 40 events (readings, panels, in-person & skype classroom visits, guest seminars/workshops). I have visited 23 cities across the country. I have shared poems, meals, Netflix recs, dreams quiet & loud, stages large & small. Thank you to every person who invited me, hosted me, made sure I was properly nourished. Thank you to every person who introduced me, driven me (sometimes quite a distance!), made sure I didn’t wander off into the ether with my terrible sense of direction. In some cases, the same ONE person was responsible for all of the above. Thank you.

And thank you to every poet (and occasionally, prose person!) I’ve had the pleasure of reading with. Big thank you to those of you who kept to your time! Lol.

Love & thanks to every person who bought a book, came up to talk, asked a question, told me (in so many ways) why writing matters to you. Yes, touring is full of tasks that take me away from writing. Being on the road can be exhausting. But meeting people who care (or who might be surprised that they care) about poetry is a deeper joy than I could’ve imagined. In particular, getting to meet fellow queer Chinese Americans and queer Asian Americans--I am so deeply glad to meet and talk with you.

[nyrbclassics]

Dorothy B. Hughes’s In a Lonely Place—a book that takes the sunshine out of Los Angeles—goes on sale today. Check out the trailer of Nicholas Ray’s cinematic adaptation, starring Humphrey Bogart and Gloria Grahame. And if you live in NYC come tomorrow (6:30pm) to The Mysterious Bookshop to hear Megan Abbott (who wrote the introduction to our edition) and Sarah Weinman discuss Hughes and the book. And if you want to see the film on the big screen, The Metrograph (also NYC: 7 Ludlow St.) will be playing  Sept 12 as part of the Brooklyn Book Festival’s Bookends week.

[nyrbclassics]

“The Coffeehouse” by Robert Walser, newly translated by Tom Whalen

There was a coming and going, I mean, people arrived and departed, appeared and disappeared. Those entering the scene made their way to one of the numerous round or square tables, and those of a mind to leave the coffeehouse, who wanted to turn their backs on the characteristic redolence that resided there, intimated or made it understood they wished to pay. Paying what they might owe, they smiled, as if delighted to be permitted to splurge, to run up a bill.        Here the latest hat styles were on display. Somehow, somewhere, a conversation materialized. Where it arose, there seemed to be evidence for the existence of witty and eloquent people. One could hear the clinking of little coffee spoons, sugar cubes dropping into the cups. Every item was treated with a certain finickiness, as if diffident behavior was the most refined one could imagine.        The servers served with care, that’s to say as inconspicuously as possible. To serve and to be served weren’t so far away from each other. Difference doesn’t need to be emphasized or ascertained in a room whose purpose is comfort. The commanding command jovially, the serving serve genteelly.        From time to time, the gérant, or manager, dropped in, as if it were becoming to quickly and nonchalantly examine the day’s business.       It was exquisite the kind of connoisseurs in the art of living who theatrically came into their own there.        Here and about, beneath the leaves of a plant, sat a woman waiting for the one to whom she had given permission to call upon her.        The strong were made weak by the coffee because there exists in the powerful the need to be assailed by something unhealthy in order to become ill. It was as if the unchallenged were embarrassed by their imperturbability, and in addition it appeared as if wasting time was essential.        Somewhere in the dark, poeticizing in solitude, sympathetically guarded by a waitress, a play-constructing or novel-drafting poet paid homage to the elegant notion that in the coffeehouse it was he who reigned supreme over fantasy and creativity.        Newspapers were requested and read more or less attentively.        The famous and the unfamous came into contact.         Apparently the coffeehouse originated in the Orient and somehow is connected to storytelling, along with the beauty and significance of idleness, which is a cultural characteristic underestimated by those not readily capable of understanding that activity and industriousness wish to be interrupted.        One lives off the other. There are those who place orders and those who take them, that is, those who initiate the production and dispense the money that’s earned, and the ones who produce and thus benefit from the worthlessness of those able to exist without working. If everyone is industrious, they stand, as it were, in each other’s way, and something essential in the whole apparatus doesn’t function, an imbalance occurs, with which words I mean to have disclosed the excellence of the coffeehouse.

                                                                                                          (1931)

From Girlfriends, Ghosts, and Other Stories, a collection of brief texts by Robert Walser, all newly translated from the German by Tom Whalen with Nicole Köngeter and Annette Wiesner, which goes on sale today.

[nyrbclassics]

“They are the only substance I’ve taken that could live up to a reputation as an aphrodisiac.”

It seemed to me as we drove down Santa Monica with the liquor-store lights all halos of color that Shawn was enhanced in such a blurry, silver fox of a night. So charming, I thought as the Quaalude came on, it’s all so charming. I felt like a floppy, prize-winning iris, content to be an iris, all lavender and silken, the kind they call True Blue.

—Eve Babitz, from Slow Days, Fast Company: The World, the Flesh, and L.A., which goes on sale today.

[gastronomynetwork]

1gastronomy

[andiabcs]

Pub Date #18

Today is my turn to contribute to the fabulous feature, the brain child of Brittany at The Book Addict’s Guide, where myself, Brittany, Estelle at Rather Be Reading and Maggie at Just a Couple More Pages are paring books and beer. Pretty perfect for a bunch of beer and book lovers if you ask me. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Music is a tough one for me as I couldn’t find any beers that…

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