recap of day one of AWP

I don't think I've ever felt more like Sissy Spacek in Carrie.
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I was sent a text message that there was a slumber party at a famous gay poet's hotel room. When I replied, asking, "who is this?", no one answered or texted me back. I had another glass of wine. Curious, I called again, taking on the persona of a gay poet more attractive than me. I disguised my voice appropriately and left a message. Still nothing. I still believe that the homosexual who texted me is the Amy Irving type--he had a change of heart and saved me from imminent humiliation. If I had gone to the slumber party, a bucket of pig's blood would have crashed on my head and I'd be more of the laughing stock than I already am.
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Speaking of laughter, I went up to one gay male poet who I've reviewed on my blog and he immediately turned his back. Very high school. Later, he was talking to several gay men about how they should create an AWP panel about the crucial role of Log Cabin Republicans in the literary community.
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I had several drinks with a very charming gay male poet who said he hadn't drunk a single drop of alcohol in a year. Liar, I thought. Tragically, though, it was true. He gradually became nervous and maudlin (my favorite emotional states) and I felt the night was a total success. He's my new favorite person.
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My new favorite person said earlier in the day (twice), "Tomorrow I'm going to tell people that you're not a complete asshole." I guess he liked me, too.
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One of the woman writers I loved when I went to Breadloaf made me feel loved and comfortable (as she always does) I don't like my photos taken, but with her I didn't mind. Her spirit helped lessen my anxiety. It's weird how the simplest of acts can make an entire trip special. If only Carrie had friends like these, she might not have gone all telekinetic apocalyptic at the prom.
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Much as it will shock everyone, I'm not an innocent in bad behavior either. One of my Brockport colleagues saw me and I hid. Apologies. No ghosts of Christmas present during my trip.
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I miss one of my Brockport colleagues who I love and is sick and not here. I hope everything is going well.
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Sometimes I get sad when I meet someone who I've only known from online. I feel vulnerable and want to say, I'm sorry. This is all I am.
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I miss Phil.
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It creeps me out when a gay male puts a post up on his blog and then his partner posts a comment three minutes later. Talk about gay co-dependency. Phil deliberately stays away from posting here (he's posted maybe three times in the more than a year I've been running this blog) and I know he's had to bite his tongue not to on more than one occasion.
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I met a gay poet who has been published by the same poetry press as me, and he seems as unpretentious and ultimately goofy and kind as his poems. But then again, I talked to him for two minutes. He still could be an asshole.
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One of my best friends is having a book signing today and she has been invited to one of those fancy secret dinners that only the best of the best get invited to. You need a special invite that you MUST bring to the event place. There's a musclebound bouncer at the door if someone's a fraud. See, John Gallaher, now I have proof those parties indeed exist! ...And when I asked the same friend if she'd get a drink with me after her dinner, she said, "don't you have someone you hang out with?"
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I had dinner with the woman who published my first essay ever, and wrote an illness memoir I'm currently teaching. She said that based on my writing she expected me to be thin and have angular features (re: not fat). She looked exactly how I thought she would: she had a generous open face. I liked her a lot.
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I am now going to have spinach omlettes and mimosas with my hotel floormate, Seamus Heaney. Okay, maybe not Seamus Heaney.