It was the launch party for a new literary magazine (I think) called DenimSkin. A friend had found out about it from a flyer in her apartment building in Harlem. It was late into the night. The open bar was closed. People were drunk. People were stoned. The line for the one-person bathroom was long.
The room was emptying out, the snacks were gone, and the host whose back pocket held the slip of paper on which I’d written my name at the beginning of the night to sign up had left the building a half hour before.
But this was about to be my 600th new thing, and it had to be good. Yes, for you, my readers, but also for me, a girl from Ohio who declared at age 2, as recorded in her baby book at her mother’s house in the suburbs, “I feel shy.”
I stepped up to the mike and started reading something I’d printed out at work earlier that day, written a couple of years ago. It was something they didn’t expect, after a night of poetry, serious literary readings, and music: an essay called My Bladder and Me. Read the rest of this entry »