On the advice of writer, Thomas Williams, I visited a wonderful independent bookstore a few blocks away on Bissonet, called Brazos. They have an extensive selection of lit mags, some of which my writer friends (and I) are in, so I opened them up and had a little visit with them/me.

There's a gallery next door, and it's showing a collection of Joe Brainard's art work, and 35 books (under glass) that he did in collaboration with John Ashbery, David Schuyler, Ron Patchett. So lucky. I envy him these friendships, his chapbook proof of them.

While I was on the poetry aisle looking up the three H's - Hicok, Hoagland, Howe - I heard loud, raspy breathing, the kind I'd only heard once before when I was sixteen and babysitting and got an obscene phone call that scared me so bad I called my Mom. She came and sat with me until the people got home. My dad wrote it off as a prank so he didn't have to worry.

I looked at the guy out of the corner of my eye, and he was 400+ lbs., standing behind me, breathing. And then he stood around the cashier and asked the young guy direct, uncomfortable questions about what he was reading. I had Fence in my hand, which, this issue, sports a soft porn cover, and I was going to be self-conscious about buying it anyway, so I'd picked up an Open City to put on top of it. But the breathing guy kept making conversation, and I put the books back on the shelf and left. I'll go back.