Primosey Path

Rant against Staples™.

I should've known better than to trust my puppy of a literary magazine to the Copy and Printing Center Hell that is Staples. But I was wooed - wooed by my mom's corporate coupons, and wooed, literally, by their shiny paper. I dallied down the primrose path and am left betrayed, bereft, but mostly enraged that it's taken them almost a week to make 60 copies of a small booklet. A ghettoer store would've had it next-day. I could've fed an immigrant family.

But instead, I am sitting on a stoop in Soho, diatribing in futility about corporate culture. This enraging behemoth could not get their shit, and subsequenty my shit, together in time to review for accuracy before I take my West Coastal Odyssey. I'm not a betting person, but my fury will be unparalleled if they fuck up, leaving too narrow a margin for their impaired copying skills to fix before the Magazine Release Party. 

Because no one can take responsibility, no one is taking responsibility and it scans my perspective darkly. Against those stupid hipsters in stupid socks bungeeing a mattress to their stupid Suburu. Against the tourists - and this act has often been the subject of my poems - stopping short in front of me. Next time I'm in fucking Omaha, I'll be sure to park my fat ass in the middle of your intersection for HOURS, delaying whatever hopping business you have to attend to. 

I have somewhere to go, not because I'm an o-so-speedy-New-Yorker but because I have laundry and packing and a life outside the office. Don't blame me for knowing where the subways are! Move the fuck over to the side of the sidewalk. When I'm in conservative areas of China, I dress modestly. WHEN IN NEW YORK, MOVE RAPIDLY. Especially away from the entrance of Staples. I will eat you. I am plumping my ass for my Great Omaha Stand. 

Lastly, it is uncommon courtesy to give an accurate estimate for when something will be done. There are somethings that a lying response is preferably for: my ass in jeans, the extent of my mom's love, how well I tapdance. The printing of my magazine is another thing. The decent thing would be a real estimate. It could have spared Staples the wrath I'm now disseminating to my two readers. 

Stretching Panties!

This is the motherload, folks. I present to you a magazine of small ambitions and huge-big, lardy heart: Stretching Panties.

Release Party at Nightingale Lounge on Wednesday, May 28. And there will be much rejoicing.