TRANSVESTITE RABBIT WRITES A NOVEL
The Xanga Ball
The banner hanging above the cavernous ballroom told the
story. A vast dance floor filled with
the rhythmic movements of bloggers unchained from their keyboards occupied the
center of the room. Around the
circumference, areas were organized by blog rings. I turned in circles, taking in the hundreds
A man in a red shirt marked “Xanga God” slapped a sticker on
“What’s that, a Kick Me sign?” I asked.
“No, certainly not,” he said. “It says, ‘transvestite rabbit.’” As he walked away I read the sticker on his
“Yo, T.R.,” a voice called.
I tried to place the accent. Jersey?
I looked at the blog ring sign over his head. Vintage Jazz
and Blues. Herb Alpert could be
heard over the pop-y, swingy stuff Jay was spinning in the DJ booth.
“Hey Kaz!” I smiled
“Embrace the scratches,” he yelled as the crowd swept me
A crowd of women hung around the Momwriters blog ring. In the
center stood a long red-haired woman with a gift for capturing the nuances of
human behavior in anecdotal form. The
other women fired questions and remarks at her.
Everyone, it seemed, wanted to talk to Neuroticfitchmom.
At the Grownups with
Content WORTH Being Featured area, a loud argument was in progress. A group of youngsters demanded
“I AM TOO a grown-up!” insisted a boy with a petulant pout,
waving his driver’s license. “I turned 20
An affable gent with a wide smile remarked, “My bald spot is
older than you are, sonny.”
“Read the sign, kiddies,” said a no-nonsense woman. “30 and up.
Get thee to the basement party room.”
I gave Twoberry and momofjenmatt two thumbs up on my way
A small sign in a far corner of the ballroom pulled me,
though I couldn’t see why.
~ Poetry Central ~ !!
I didn’t belong to
this or any other poetry blog rings. My
poetic efforts were limited to limericks and the occasional haiku. Still, I approached the white-clothed table
there and helped myself to some punch.
A 40ish man with a
goatee approached me. “Which one’re
you?” he asked, circling around to look at my back. “Transvestite rabbit? Never heard of you.”
“I don’t usually
hang out here,” I said apologetically.
“I only write prose and um… grants.”
I looked at my feet.
The goateed dude
snorted and walked off to find somebody more poetic to talk to.
“Why are you
standing around here?” Carey appeared
suddenly, followed by a man who seemed like he was shy, yet had a lot to
say. “Take Steve out to dance,” she
“Leonidas,” I said,
“how did you…” I stopped, stunned speechless by the door behind the Poetry
Central blog ring. In executive-type
block lettering, the door read:
“Wait!” I said. “I’ve
got to go see, um, somebody over there,” I told Steve. “Grab a poet and go dance!”
I pushed my way through the thickening crowd and approached
the door, raising my fist to knock.