08 April, 2017
06 April, 2012
ain't the years gone by fast/I suppose you have missed them ...
It can be a real chore accounting for the last 18 years. In a nutshell, I left school, failed at several relationships, fronted or semi-fronted 3 failed bands, moved from Bowling Green to Toledo back to Youngstown and ultimately to Chicago, worked a few jobs and counted the grey hairs slowly invading my pate. 1994 to today has been a veritable lifetime, during which I guess I've led many lives.
So, 18 years ago today ... (my first) senior year at Bowling Green ... a grey, rainy friday morning a year into the first Bubba Clinton administration ... hung over from last night, late to my morning newspaper meetings, I start the shower. I find my black cassette copy of 'Bleach' procured from a high school friend's older brother ca. 1990, put it in a boom box & crank it. Washing off the night before, I find myself singing along, rocking out, thinking out loud, "wow, this is *still* the coolest album, is so much fun." And it is. Negative Creep. Scoff. 'Daddy's little girl ain't a girl no more ...'
I walk the near-mile to campus. My meeting is at West Hall & my coworker at the paper has a radio show downstairs, so I pop in to say hello. He says, "have you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"They found a body at Kurt Cobain's house. All they're saying is it's a small, blond man in his 20s."
"It's Beck. I hope. Or some homeless kid," I say. Hoping against hope.
I go up to my meeting & keep one good eye on the Associated Press wires for the next couple of hours. Soon enough, all of us know the story. Someone has a party that night and I give a good load of angry shit to some jam band-listening coworker who can't spell. It will be a solid four years before I can really enjoy 'Bleach' again.
A lot has happened in 18 years. David Geffen has gotten richer. David Grohl has made a fortune in nonthreatening show tunes. I would say the world of working in song has suffered, but the songs are still there. Something about the opposite of Marc Antony's soliloquy in 'Julius Caesar.'
So, 18 years ago today ... (my first) senior year at Bowling Green ... a grey, rainy friday morning a year into the first Bubba Clinton administration ... hung over from last night, late to my morning newspaper meetings, I start the shower. I find my black cassette copy of 'Bleach' procured from a high school friend's older brother ca. 1990, put it in a boom box & crank it. Washing off the night before, I find myself singing along, rocking out, thinking out loud, "wow, this is *still* the coolest album, is so much fun." And it is. Negative Creep. Scoff. 'Daddy's little girl ain't a girl no more ...'
I walk the near-mile to campus. My meeting is at West Hall & my coworker at the paper has a radio show downstairs, so I pop in to say hello. He says, "have you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"They found a body at Kurt Cobain's house. All they're saying is it's a small, blond man in his 20s."
"It's Beck. I hope. Or some homeless kid," I say. Hoping against hope.
I go up to my meeting & keep one good eye on the Associated Press wires for the next couple of hours. Soon enough, all of us know the story. Someone has a party that night and I give a good load of angry shit to some jam band-listening coworker who can't spell. It will be a solid four years before I can really enjoy 'Bleach' again.
A lot has happened in 18 years. David Geffen has gotten richer. David Grohl has made a fortune in nonthreatening show tunes. I would say the world of working in song has suffered, but the songs are still there. Something about the opposite of Marc Antony's soliloquy in 'Julius Caesar.'
09 September, 2011
rewrite
(orig. shat this one out for a 'pome-a-day' piece a couple years back. Forgot about it. 730am revise, years removed, is as follows):
THE HI-ROAD DRIVE-IN
leadfooted down U.S. 68 past Dunkirk to
Columbus
for a wedding
20 yr. old music from my boyhood shuffling
the big W. OH sky
clear & cool @ noon 1st day
of spring & nearly blew by it to spite
our eyes peeled for it, anonymous, almost hidden
outside passengerside window, just beyond
irrigation ditch, hemmed in by distant
treelines not yet leaved, rumble
of tires on gravel in reverse to pull into
its dirt driveway, disembark & photograph
sun/weather-bleached box office marquee recalling
tornados on Katie’s birthday, June ‘89
broke off & carried away the bigger part of
its whitewashed plywood screen, yet unmended, to leave
those few here for the movies squinting
as if watching grandparents’ portable TVs
oblivious, it would seem, to advances
of kids like me, there to lose/take cherries, now as then & back
to frame the marquee, this
tumbleweed, if you will, to that cobwebbed corner, my
sentimental mind & take cover behind
driver’s side door to skirt
wind-kicked dust. Resume driving
sign aliases in an antique café guestbook
downroad in Kenton, marvel @ unchanged
farm machines foreground to yellow thaw
19th, to be exact, since I last blew through &
left behind & Stipe’s voice filling the car rings
apropos: Take a picture here. Take a souvenir.
THE HI-ROAD DRIVE-IN
leadfooted down U.S. 68 past Dunkirk to
Columbus
for a wedding
20 yr. old music from my boyhood shuffling
the big W. OH sky
clear & cool @ noon 1st day
of spring & nearly blew by it to spite
our eyes peeled for it, anonymous, almost hidden
outside passengerside window, just beyond
irrigation ditch, hemmed in by distant
treelines not yet leaved, rumble
of tires on gravel in reverse to pull into
its dirt driveway, disembark & photograph
sun/weather-bleached box office marquee recalling
tornados on Katie’s birthday, June ‘89
broke off & carried away the bigger part of
its whitewashed plywood screen, yet unmended, to leave
those few here for the movies squinting
as if watching grandparents’ portable TVs
oblivious, it would seem, to advances
of kids like me, there to lose/take cherries, now as then & back
to frame the marquee, this
tumbleweed, if you will, to that cobwebbed corner, my
sentimental mind & take cover behind
driver’s side door to skirt
wind-kicked dust. Resume driving
sign aliases in an antique café guestbook
downroad in Kenton, marvel @ unchanged
farm machines foreground to yellow thaw
19th, to be exact, since I last blew through &
left behind & Stipe’s voice filling the car rings
apropos: Take a picture here. Take a souvenir.
03 March, 2010
comes a time when it's later , honey, I'm sure ...
Three semi-feral male cats patrol my block of Hyde's Park. Two are silver tabbies and the other is a yellowish shorthair. They're all muscles, claws and fangs. The tabbies are friendly. The shorthair is fearless and likes to bite, but he's friendly, too. I believe and have heard tell they 'belong' to one of the neighbors. Any neighbor who would leave his housecats out in the elements is no friend of mine, but these three guys are pretty damned awesome. They can get up a 50-foot tree in about a second.
Oh, there are 'missing fluffy' posters all over the neighborhood, and I can only wonder if this trio have anything to do with small dogs & birds disappearing. If yes, more power to 'em ....
My granddad used to say he didn't trust anyone who didn't like cats. I believe he was right about that a little bit more with each waking moment.
Oh, there are 'missing fluffy' posters all over the neighborhood, and I can only wonder if this trio have anything to do with small dogs & birds disappearing. If yes, more power to 'em ....
My granddad used to say he didn't trust anyone who didn't like cats. I believe he was right about that a little bit more with each waking moment.
02 March, 2010
I'm a little bit country punk ...
This Leno back on The Tonight Show business makes me happy I no longer have a TV.
I woke up surly yesterday, and spent the morning flaming some dude who blogs wine reviews, yet doesn't seem to understand the difference between a right bank Bordeaux and a left bank Bordeaux. Seriously, who drops a mere $7 on a bottle of St. Emillion and expects it to knock their socks off all 1978 Pauillac-like? Yes, I was once jerked around by airport security for being a terroirist.
My two cents, and I'm not the first (see: Lynn Sweet) to go out on such a limb: Lots of congressional incumbents will lose their seats in the midterms regardless of party affiliation. The electorate doesn't see democrats or republicans as the problem. Rather, it sees congress as a whole as the problem. The White House knows this (see: Obama at the recent 'health summit' talking trash about 'seeing what happens in November,' or whatever his exact words were), and those are some pretty crack wonk psychic witches (Axelrod, et al) working there. And there I go, talking my leftie friends down once more ...
I woke up surly yesterday, and spent the morning flaming some dude who blogs wine reviews, yet doesn't seem to understand the difference between a right bank Bordeaux and a left bank Bordeaux. Seriously, who drops a mere $7 on a bottle of St. Emillion and expects it to knock their socks off all 1978 Pauillac-like? Yes, I was once jerked around by airport security for being a terroirist.
My two cents, and I'm not the first (see: Lynn Sweet) to go out on such a limb: Lots of congressional incumbents will lose their seats in the midterms regardless of party affiliation. The electorate doesn't see democrats or republicans as the problem. Rather, it sees congress as a whole as the problem. The White House knows this (see: Obama at the recent 'health summit' talking trash about 'seeing what happens in November,' or whatever his exact words were), and those are some pretty crack wonk psychic witches (Axelrod, et al) working there. And there I go, talking my leftie friends down once more ...
01 March, 2010
I could swear I have posted since Xmas. Oh, well ...
People in Chicago drive like assholes. Especially in crosswalks. Or when behind the wheel of something German. Go figure.
I think I saw Paul Westerberg walking into the revolving door of the Michigan Av. Filene's basement today, but for a moment before I realized who dude looked like I thought it was Ozzy Osbourne.
People in Chicago drive like assholes. Especially in crosswalks. Or when behind the wheel of something German. Go figure.
I think I saw Paul Westerberg walking into the revolving door of the Michigan Av. Filene's basement today, but for a moment before I realized who dude looked like I thought it was Ozzy Osbourne.
25 December, 2009
the last blowing past
I first heard/got into Vic Chesnutt on an R.E.M. tribute album from the first half of the 1990s. "Surprise Your Pig," it was called, and his contribution was a groovy mashup of "It's the End of the World as we Know it (& I Feel Fine)." Being the dilligent music fan, I did my research and got into his work. He'd been writing songs since childhood, came from a musical family. Played a mean guitar from a young age.
I next really got into Vic's music with his 1998 album, "Is the Actor Happy." Vic wrote a mean lyric & did the most interesting things with the basest chord progressions & the most creative & spare arrangements. His "The Gravity of the Situation," from that album, is one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard.
In the '80s, when Vic was 18, he was paralyzed in a car accident. He re-learned the guitar with his now-limited arm/hand movement, which forced his songwriting hand to the simpler. The simpler, you know, is the more tried and true way, at least in the music I like. This past summer, I had a dinner party and a friend of mine, himself a survivor of a tragic car wreck, confided an anecdote about meeting Vic at a show at Schuba's, requesting a song Vic's band didn't know, sharing his own car wreck story ... Vic played him the song, in spite of his sidepeople being out of the loop. Nice guy, I thought. I know it meant a good lot to my friend.
Vic released a great album, "At the Cut," this year. He recorded it & toured in its support with Fugazi's Guy Picciotto and a number of other fine musicians. In the past, he worked with great bands like R.E.M. and Lambchop. He received accolades from *everyone* who matters. In a town like Athens, Ga., where *everybody* plays in several really good bands, that means a hell of a lot.
I was lucky enough to stumble upon an interview with Vic & Mr. Picciotto a week or so back, on NPR. Vic was as intimate as his songs, honestly and humbly discussing his accident, his addictions, his past suicide attempts (there were many). As had been the case as long as I've known the man's music, I kept liking him more the more I heard.
Vic passed today/yesterday, 24 December. He'd overdosed, intentionally, and left a note, instructed the authorities who found him to contact his friend, Kristen Hersh. The first reports were that he was comatose, but soon enough, his death was confirmed.
All that has ever been cool in music or the arts for that matter lost a very, very good one this holiday season.
I next really got into Vic's music with his 1998 album, "Is the Actor Happy." Vic wrote a mean lyric & did the most interesting things with the basest chord progressions & the most creative & spare arrangements. His "The Gravity of the Situation," from that album, is one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard.
In the '80s, when Vic was 18, he was paralyzed in a car accident. He re-learned the guitar with his now-limited arm/hand movement, which forced his songwriting hand to the simpler. The simpler, you know, is the more tried and true way, at least in the music I like. This past summer, I had a dinner party and a friend of mine, himself a survivor of a tragic car wreck, confided an anecdote about meeting Vic at a show at Schuba's, requesting a song Vic's band didn't know, sharing his own car wreck story ... Vic played him the song, in spite of his sidepeople being out of the loop. Nice guy, I thought. I know it meant a good lot to my friend.
Vic released a great album, "At the Cut," this year. He recorded it & toured in its support with Fugazi's Guy Picciotto and a number of other fine musicians. In the past, he worked with great bands like R.E.M. and Lambchop. He received accolades from *everyone* who matters. In a town like Athens, Ga., where *everybody* plays in several really good bands, that means a hell of a lot.
I was lucky enough to stumble upon an interview with Vic & Mr. Picciotto a week or so back, on NPR. Vic was as intimate as his songs, honestly and humbly discussing his accident, his addictions, his past suicide attempts (there were many). As had been the case as long as I've known the man's music, I kept liking him more the more I heard.
Vic passed today/yesterday, 24 December. He'd overdosed, intentionally, and left a note, instructed the authorities who found him to contact his friend, Kristen Hersh. The first reports were that he was comatose, but soon enough, his death was confirmed.
All that has ever been cool in music or the arts for that matter lost a very, very good one this holiday season.
03 November, 2009
Things I Learned Reading Hemingway
-- Don’t be impressed by one’s titles, accomplishments, etc (“Robert Cohn was once middleweight boxing champion of Princeton. Do not think that I am very much impressed by that ...”).
-- Don’t live vicariously. Just live.
-- A good man may know his limitations, but that’s no excuse to walk the line as long as you’re honest with yourself and others.
-- Tell it like it is. Don’t sugarcoat it. Don’t go around comparing her to a summer’s day. Save your breath. She knows that’s bullshit. “She was damned good-looking” takes less time and space and says miles beyond any archaic, verbose sonnet.
-- Keep your writing friends separate from your tennis friends.
-- When in doubt, best to trust balls and grace. My late friend, Carl, put it that way once, but he was paraphrasing Hemingway.
-- Your art/craft above all else. When cash-strapped, buy books, not clothes. Gertrude Stein’s edict, adopted by EH.
-- At the end of the day, when it comes to you, it’s your way or the highway, and stay the hell away from mental health professionals.
-- Don’t live vicariously. Just live.
-- A good man may know his limitations, but that’s no excuse to walk the line as long as you’re honest with yourself and others.
-- Tell it like it is. Don’t sugarcoat it. Don’t go around comparing her to a summer’s day. Save your breath. She knows that’s bullshit. “She was damned good-looking” takes less time and space and says miles beyond any archaic, verbose sonnet.
-- Keep your writing friends separate from your tennis friends.
-- When in doubt, best to trust balls and grace. My late friend, Carl, put it that way once, but he was paraphrasing Hemingway.
-- Your art/craft above all else. When cash-strapped, buy books, not clothes. Gertrude Stein’s edict, adopted by EH.
-- At the end of the day, when it comes to you, it’s your way or the highway, and stay the hell away from mental health professionals.
27 August, 2009
Pleased to Meet Me
i.
he sits
translates Rimbaud
cheap desk from Ikea
a dark studio by the lake
he sits
egged on by Spanish red
a semester of French in college
seduced by his TA to guarantee
an easy B, resorts
to search engines to assist
w/the trickier parts, but is surprised
bemused (Breathless)
what he’s retained
perhaps from subtitles
in films from Jeunet & Godard
Breathless (bemused)
I is
the other is not
the author & does
protocol for
meeting oneself
exist
only in dreams
unrequited maybes
riff away on Walter Mitty
exist
Breathless
to the author’s
Masculin Feminine
-cigarettes & idealized selves
breathless
ii.
born
in a barn
on the S. side
of a steeltown
way of thinking
takes to drinking
like his daddy
(his daddy . . .
His old man’s Charger is all stale smoke & sticky old beer. The old man perspires Miller. Exhales Chesterfields. They see each other weekends since the divorce. Stay up late to watch Hee Haw and Benny Hill. As a man the child stays in most weekends. Never marries. Comes to associate sweaty beer aromas with country and western from the ‘70s. Acquires an affinity for tight-clothed redheads with curves. Southern accents. Lowbrow humour. Waylon. Willie. )
iii.
Ridge of his N. Mediterranean
nose the airs put on to his toes tapping
lines into stanza those Bohemian
shades so as not to catch his self napping
the newly-formed crows’ feet & blood-shot eyes
keep the sun away the critics at bay
nobody knows his poker show the yes
he promises & blindly looks away
tweaked on LSD he loses his mind
on too much Nietsche in college a fraud
in Chuck Taylors in the Bowling Green wind
& recalls reading something from Rimbaud:
if you see yourself coming cross the street
anyone else would be better to meet
iv.
I has Johnson’s Love in Vain
I meets ladies on Amtrak, paints
w/his cock in the rain & writes ghazals
to loves lost on trains easy as I finds it & improvs
Sonatas to weather patterns, rhapsodizes galaxies, jungles &
stillframes, all the while
I is me is
sane
is an artist
feels pain is
homeless, orphaned tumbleweeds
on greasemonkey summer pavement joneses
for James Brown loud on headphones is
I’s opiate throat-rush enough &
dirty-fingered & minge-mouthed
Heartbreak Hotel & Thin Lizzy’s Jailbreak
unafraid to sleep alone, I whinges
anyway, at the thought of it, but I
is alright
won’t complain
gets tight & recalls something
his old man used to say: even the best
wine stains.
he sits
translates Rimbaud
cheap desk from Ikea
a dark studio by the lake
he sits
egged on by Spanish red
a semester of French in college
seduced by his TA to guarantee
an easy B, resorts
to search engines to assist
w/the trickier parts, but is surprised
bemused (Breathless)
what he’s retained
perhaps from subtitles
in films from Jeunet & Godard
Breathless (bemused)
I is
the other is not
the author & does
protocol for
meeting oneself
exist
only in dreams
unrequited maybes
riff away on Walter Mitty
exist
Breathless
to the author’s
Masculin Feminine
-cigarettes & idealized selves
breathless
ii.
born
in a barn
on the S. side
of a steeltown
way of thinking
takes to drinking
like his daddy
(his daddy . . .
His old man’s Charger is all stale smoke & sticky old beer. The old man perspires Miller. Exhales Chesterfields. They see each other weekends since the divorce. Stay up late to watch Hee Haw and Benny Hill. As a man the child stays in most weekends. Never marries. Comes to associate sweaty beer aromas with country and western from the ‘70s. Acquires an affinity for tight-clothed redheads with curves. Southern accents. Lowbrow humour. Waylon. Willie. )
iii.
Ridge of his N. Mediterranean
nose the airs put on to his toes tapping
lines into stanza those Bohemian
shades so as not to catch his self napping
the newly-formed crows’ feet & blood-shot eyes
keep the sun away the critics at bay
nobody knows his poker show the yes
he promises & blindly looks away
tweaked on LSD he loses his mind
on too much Nietsche in college a fraud
in Chuck Taylors in the Bowling Green wind
& recalls reading something from Rimbaud:
if you see yourself coming cross the street
anyone else would be better to meet
iv.
I has Johnson’s Love in Vain
I meets ladies on Amtrak, paints
w/his cock in the rain & writes ghazals
to loves lost on trains easy as I finds it & improvs
Sonatas to weather patterns, rhapsodizes galaxies, jungles &
stillframes, all the while
I is me is
sane
is an artist
feels pain is
homeless, orphaned tumbleweeds
on greasemonkey summer pavement joneses
for James Brown loud on headphones is
I’s opiate throat-rush enough &
dirty-fingered & minge-mouthed
Heartbreak Hotel & Thin Lizzy’s Jailbreak
unafraid to sleep alone, I whinges
anyway, at the thought of it, but I
is alright
won’t complain
gets tight & recalls something
his old man used to say: even the best
wine stains.
26 August, 2009
pleased to meet me, before the clustered corpse
so, on Sunday, at high-noon, I'll be reading with some friends at the Bucktown Arts Festival. It's a collective piece ... basically we each were given the prompt: what happens when you meet yourself? and then we each pieced together our own lines on the idea and then Mr. Barton cut and pasted lines from each of our pieces into a finished corpse. It's pretty cool to see that process unfold, and should be a good time throwing it all together at Holstein's Park in a few days ...
23 July, 2009
Things to do around Hyde's Park
1. Grow a beard.
2. Build a bar in my bedroom.
3. Go bowling across the street.
4. Chill w/Clarence Darrow's ghost in Jackson's Park.
5. Shave my beard.
6. That silver-haired, Harry Morgan-looking regular at Jimmy's who always gets 4 or 5 burgers for takeout ... yeah, that guy ... get all the regulars to start calling him "Hamburger Joe."
7. Grow a beard.
2. Build a bar in my bedroom.
3. Go bowling across the street.
4. Chill w/Clarence Darrow's ghost in Jackson's Park.
5. Shave my beard.
6. That silver-haired, Harry Morgan-looking regular at Jimmy's who always gets 4 or 5 burgers for takeout ... yeah, that guy ... get all the regulars to start calling him "Hamburger Joe."
7. Grow a beard.
14 July, 2009
some emails from 4 years ago
Scott DeKatch to Kristy
18/06/2005
did you pay CJ $20 to appear in this? he emailed me that the $20 would be mandatory this year.
Reply Forward
----------------------------
Kristy Bowen: Seriously? WTF?...
I emailed him back the day he sent out the call and said I was in, but nothing about paying the $20....I was going to anyway, just to support the thing, but if that's the case.
-------------------------------
From : C. J. Laity
Sent : Saturday, June 18, 2005 9:38 AM
To : Scott DeKatch
Subject : RE: ATTENTION: 2005 CHICAGO POETRY FEST BOOKING
Hi Scott. In order so that I don't lose my shirt again this year on the fest the $20 anthology donation is required of all poets who want to participate. I'll put your name down on the pending list. Send me a poem w/ the donation asap as the slots are disappearing fast. --cj
=============================================
Kristy Bowen:
oh boy, this is going to be ugly.... I just sent an e-mail to CJ withdrawing my participation. It's just so WRONG. I was more than willing to cough up the 20 bucks, but the whole pay to play thing is a little slimey....at least for a reading. What we'll end up with is a whole bunch of poets who payed the 20, not because they are good and were chosen for the fest based on that, but because they paid.
I’m seriously hoping he'll just quietly take me out of the line-up. Either that or there'll be an entire juvenile article on the website trashing me in a couple days. Hopefully, outside of attacking my mother or something, he doesn't have anything on me..
And I can't be the only one who's told him where to go..
Kristy Bowen to me
Fuck, here we go....Here was the response I got...we may BOTH be in for the wrath...
****************************************************************
Kristy,
Please share this letter with whoever is concerned.
Your letter simply makes me sad.
I think of the fest more as joint venture among the poets. If we all chip in the $20 we can buy some advertising and cover the expenses of something this major. It is not fair that some poets chip in, and others don't, when all the poets take advantage of the fest.
The use of the word "required" or the _expression "lose my shirt" was only sent in one email to one poet, Scott DeKatch, so I'm assuming that this email was somehow shared with you and possibly with others. I am utterly disappointed that Scott did that. I have done nothing but support Scott DeKatch and his work, so for him to make a big deal out of a lousy $20 is to me, well, pretty damn icky.
I also feel rather let down that you will not appear out of protest. In order to make the fest a success I'm asking the poets to chip in this one time. So far nobody else has complained. You consider this "pay to play" but I think that is a rather unfair accusation that you are making. I do more "free" work than anybody in the poetry community. I did not get paid for my work with the Printers Row Book Fair. I do not get paid for all my work with ChicagoPoetry.com. I am constantly promoting other people's shows and books. Many times others make money off of my work, but I don't. That you or others have decided to make a big deal this one time that I am forced to seek funding from the participants, is again, extremely disappointing.
***********************************************************************
Kristy Bowen:
He claims that no one else has a problem, and yet, I recall another e-mail asking (practically begging) for features that went out a few days after the initial one..perhaps the glut of people he was expecting wasn't quite as large as he initially assumed....and why would it be, who pays to read for gods' sake?
18/06/2005
did you pay CJ $20 to appear in this? he emailed me that the $20 would be mandatory this year.
Reply Forward
----------------------------
Kristy Bowen: Seriously? WTF?...
I emailed him back the day he sent out the call and said I was in, but nothing about paying the $20....I was going to anyway, just to support the thing, but if that's the case.
-------------------------------
From : C. J. Laity
Sent : Saturday, June 18, 2005 9:38 AM
To : Scott DeKatch
Subject : RE: ATTENTION: 2005 CHICAGO POETRY FEST BOOKING
Hi Scott. In order so that I don't lose my shirt again this year on the fest the $20 anthology donation is required of all poets who want to participate. I'll put your name down on the pending list. Send me a poem w/ the donation asap as the slots are disappearing fast. --cj
=============================================
Kristy Bowen:
oh boy, this is going to be ugly.... I just sent an e-mail to CJ withdrawing my participation. It's just so WRONG. I was more than willing to cough up the 20 bucks, but the whole pay to play thing is a little slimey....at least for a reading. What we'll end up with is a whole bunch of poets who payed the 20, not because they are good and were chosen for the fest based on that, but because they paid.
I’m seriously hoping he'll just quietly take me out of the line-up. Either that or there'll be an entire juvenile article on the website trashing me in a couple days. Hopefully, outside of attacking my mother or something, he doesn't have anything on me..
And I can't be the only one who's told him where to go..
Kristy Bowen to me
Fuck, here we go....Here was the response I got...we may BOTH be in for the wrath...
****************************************************************
Kristy,
Please share this letter with whoever is concerned.
Your letter simply makes me sad.
I think of the fest more as joint venture among the poets. If we all chip in the $20 we can buy some advertising and cover the expenses of something this major. It is not fair that some poets chip in, and others don't, when all the poets take advantage of the fest.
The use of the word "required" or the _expression "lose my shirt" was only sent in one email to one poet, Scott DeKatch, so I'm assuming that this email was somehow shared with you and possibly with others. I am utterly disappointed that Scott did that. I have done nothing but support Scott DeKatch and his work, so for him to make a big deal out of a lousy $20 is to me, well, pretty damn icky.
I also feel rather let down that you will not appear out of protest. In order to make the fest a success I'm asking the poets to chip in this one time. So far nobody else has complained. You consider this "pay to play" but I think that is a rather unfair accusation that you are making. I do more "free" work than anybody in the poetry community. I did not get paid for my work with the Printers Row Book Fair. I do not get paid for all my work with ChicagoPoetry.com. I am constantly promoting other people's shows and books. Many times others make money off of my work, but I don't. That you or others have decided to make a big deal this one time that I am forced to seek funding from the participants, is again, extremely disappointing.
***********************************************************************
Kristy Bowen:
He claims that no one else has a problem, and yet, I recall another e-mail asking (practically begging) for features that went out a few days after the initial one..perhaps the glut of people he was expecting wasn't quite as large as he initially assumed....and why would it be, who pays to read for gods' sake?
14 June, 2009
dogging neruda
I did a reading, I think back in December, maybe on my birthday. Read an older piece of mine. At the end, Chris says, "are you *really* comparing Pablo Neruda to Rod McKuen???"
"No," I say. "The speaker in the poem is doing the comparing."
"But, really ... the speaker was calling them both 'hallmark hacks.' Do you really *mean* that?"
I've read Neruda, I told him. In spanish, even, and my spanish is pretty decent ... however you slice it ... it may be great and heartfelt and magical and musical, but there's still a hallmark thing happening ...
anywhooo, I had a reading a few weeks back ... I was pretty stoked for it, because I knew I'd have some long-lost friends hanging at it, a few of whom are big Nerudites ... so, i took a well-travelled Neruda piece & did my own translation, direct from the spanish text (keep in mind -- there is no spanish equivalent of words like "to do," and that it contains untranslatable idioms). Not tooting my horn, just stating it, and it follows:
-------------------------
I Can Write the Saddest Lines Tonight
by Pablo Neruda
trans. S. E. D.
I can write the saddest lines tonight
cld write the night is starry
the stars, afar, shiver blue
the wind of the sky in the night sings, circles
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
I loved her, Jack, &, sometimes, she loved me, too.
on nights like this I’d hold her in my arms
kiss her countless times beneath the endless sky
she loved me, Jack. I loved her, too, at times
how not to love those big, still eyes
I can write the saddest lines tonight,
to think I don’t have her. I lost her.
to hear the vast night, greater than she
verse falls to soul, is dew to pasture
what matters my love can’t keep her
the night is starry & she’s gone
far off, somebody is singing, far off
my soul is sad from losing
closer to the vest
my heart looks for her -- she’s gone
the same night whitens the same trees
we no longer are the same
I no longer love her, but how I did
my voice searched for the wind to touch her ear
& now, kisses from another, as before from me
her voice, her body clear, their eyes endless
I don’t love her, that’s true, but maybe I do
so short, love, & forgetting so long
b/c on nights like this I’d hold her in my arms
my soul is sad from losing,
even though this is my final pain
& these are the last lines I’ll write
I can write the saddest lines of all tonight.
"No," I say. "The speaker in the poem is doing the comparing."
"But, really ... the speaker was calling them both 'hallmark hacks.' Do you really *mean* that?"
I've read Neruda, I told him. In spanish, even, and my spanish is pretty decent ... however you slice it ... it may be great and heartfelt and magical and musical, but there's still a hallmark thing happening ...
anywhooo, I had a reading a few weeks back ... I was pretty stoked for it, because I knew I'd have some long-lost friends hanging at it, a few of whom are big Nerudites ... so, i took a well-travelled Neruda piece & did my own translation, direct from the spanish text (keep in mind -- there is no spanish equivalent of words like "to do," and that it contains untranslatable idioms). Not tooting my horn, just stating it, and it follows:
-------------------------
I Can Write the Saddest Lines Tonight
by Pablo Neruda
trans. S. E. D.
I can write the saddest lines tonight
cld write the night is starry
the stars, afar, shiver blue
the wind of the sky in the night sings, circles
I can write the saddest lines tonight.
I loved her, Jack, &, sometimes, she loved me, too.
on nights like this I’d hold her in my arms
kiss her countless times beneath the endless sky
she loved me, Jack. I loved her, too, at times
how not to love those big, still eyes
I can write the saddest lines tonight,
to think I don’t have her. I lost her.
to hear the vast night, greater than she
verse falls to soul, is dew to pasture
what matters my love can’t keep her
the night is starry & she’s gone
far off, somebody is singing, far off
my soul is sad from losing
closer to the vest
my heart looks for her -- she’s gone
the same night whitens the same trees
we no longer are the same
I no longer love her, but how I did
my voice searched for the wind to touch her ear
& now, kisses from another, as before from me
her voice, her body clear, their eyes endless
I don’t love her, that’s true, but maybe I do
so short, love, & forgetting so long
b/c on nights like this I’d hold her in my arms
my soul is sad from losing,
even though this is my final pain
& these are the last lines I’ll write
I can write the saddest lines of all tonight.
19 May, 2009
I guess when I go down, I go down in flames ...
The price one pays for attempting wit. Guy got cheesed at me today for stepping on his lame one-liner on some message board about that Eugenides guy who wrote The Virgin Suicides. I end the workaday & log on to find not one, but three emails from this fellow. I received these via one of those 'social networking' sites. Sadly, when you 'report' somebody making threats, the site 'blocks' them & you can't respond in private. Not that I'd want any more of my info available to Dude, but, hey, one good turn deserves another, eh?
Correspondence #1: Hi
Today at 12:03pm
from: D.D.
Hey fa--ot......nice shades while indoors....you look like an AIDS stricken Bob Dylan....hard to look like a hipster when you're a srawny geek wearing a $ 7 blue workshirt.........humorous.....little weasel hiding behind your keyboard........f--k you
Dear D,
Thanks. I own several sunglasses, but those are my favorites. Bob Dylan is also one of my favorites, so thanks on that one, too. I always thought 'hipsters' *were* scrawny geeks wearing $7, blue work shirts. The one in the photo was purchased at The Gap, I think. It was pretty cheap, but probably more in the $15 price range.
There is a weasel behind my keyboard?!?!?! I could use a pet.
I'm sorry, I don't go for guys, and, also, I don't believe we've ever met. Therefore, I can't help you with that request.
yours,
sed
Correspondence #2: Scott the nervous bed wetter
Oh nooooooooooooooooo ! Scott is on youtube in a HIP poetry reading club !!! LOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL ;) He's nervous, twitching, sweating. Apparently the pressure of reading his emo poem in front of 12 people is too much for him ! And hey geek, the pseudo hipster poem by Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer was much funnier ;)
Dear D.,
Glad you found that YouTube! I don't remember sweating at that reading, but I probably was a bit out of my element, as that was taped at this cozy, little bar where they usually don't bring cameras. I assure you, I can be quite the ham.
Per your last correspondence, I'm racking my brain trying to remember whether or not Mike Myers wears a $7, blue work shirt in that film. It *was* a funny reading his character gave, though. Sometimes I think he must have caught one of my friend Charlie's readings back in his Second City days.
sed
Correspondence #3: message
Where'd you go fa--ot ? Curled up in your bed, crying emo style ? You're a dime a dozen - Wanna be writers who scribble terrible poetry in a worn spiral pad, quoting the Important writers you read, trying to convince yourself that one day you really WILL write that novel you've had in your head all these years. Er, you're 37 Scotty Boy, your times up already, you'll never write a novel, all you'll leave behind is your little notebooks with your god awful emo whinings. You're a reader, not a writer ;) Sad truth huh boy ? So follow that urge and put that gun in your mouth, yessssssssssss..........feel that muzzle in your mouth, just like all those gigantic black c---s you've had rammed in your mouth...follow that urge, you'll never be anyone, you're a wanna be...a nobody....you think you're a f--king writer ? You think you're some kind of f--king Mickey Spillane ?!?! LOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL ;) And oh, I know some twisted mutherf--kers in Chicago...behave yourself now boy.....I hope you sleep lightly.....
Well, D, I went to work. Then I went to get coffee with an old friend. A dime a dozen? Well, I don't know about that, but I prefer perfect-bound notebooks, as the spiral ones tend to mangle the pages, which then tear out too easily. I do most of my work on a word processor, though.
According to Monty Python, 37 is not old. They also had some nice things to say about John Denver, but that is neither here nor there. I don't have any urges to put any gun in my mouth, and as far as I know I've never done the other thing, but, hey, who knows, I mean I *did* have a few wild years back at school. (Sigh), suppose that would be my business, though, huh?
I sleep alright. I dream in color, too. Once, when I was 16 or so, I dreamt I was cutting class & got caught by the assistant principal. Then, I wished the situation could be a bit cooler ... wouldn't you know, all of a sudden I'm dreaming I'm on an airplane playing my guitar with Jimi Hendrix. He showed me some cool stuff and then said, "Excuse me, while I kiss the sky," and parachuted out of the plane. I believe the experts call that 'lucid dreaming,' but what would I know?
Chicago is a nice place, yes, but some folks can be twisted. I also know some twisted folks in the Ft. Myers area, as well as some cops.
best,
Scott
Correspondence #1: Hi
Today at 12:03pm
from: D.D.
Hey fa--ot......nice shades while indoors....you look like an AIDS stricken Bob Dylan....hard to look like a hipster when you're a srawny geek wearing a $ 7 blue workshirt.........humorous.....little weasel hiding behind your keyboard........f--k you
Dear D,
Thanks. I own several sunglasses, but those are my favorites. Bob Dylan is also one of my favorites, so thanks on that one, too. I always thought 'hipsters' *were* scrawny geeks wearing $7, blue work shirts. The one in the photo was purchased at The Gap, I think. It was pretty cheap, but probably more in the $15 price range.
There is a weasel behind my keyboard?!?!?! I could use a pet.
I'm sorry, I don't go for guys, and, also, I don't believe we've ever met. Therefore, I can't help you with that request.
yours,
sed
Correspondence #2: Scott the nervous bed wetter
Oh nooooooooooooooooo ! Scott is on youtube in a HIP poetry reading club !!! LOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL ;) He's nervous, twitching, sweating. Apparently the pressure of reading his emo poem in front of 12 people is too much for him ! And hey geek, the pseudo hipster poem by Mike Myers in So I Married an Axe Murderer was much funnier ;)
Dear D.,
Glad you found that YouTube! I don't remember sweating at that reading, but I probably was a bit out of my element, as that was taped at this cozy, little bar where they usually don't bring cameras. I assure you, I can be quite the ham.
Per your last correspondence, I'm racking my brain trying to remember whether or not Mike Myers wears a $7, blue work shirt in that film. It *was* a funny reading his character gave, though. Sometimes I think he must have caught one of my friend Charlie's readings back in his Second City days.
sed
Correspondence #3: message
Where'd you go fa--ot ? Curled up in your bed, crying emo style ? You're a dime a dozen - Wanna be writers who scribble terrible poetry in a worn spiral pad, quoting the Important writers you read, trying to convince yourself that one day you really WILL write that novel you've had in your head all these years. Er, you're 37 Scotty Boy, your times up already, you'll never write a novel, all you'll leave behind is your little notebooks with your god awful emo whinings. You're a reader, not a writer ;) Sad truth huh boy ? So follow that urge and put that gun in your mouth, yessssssssssss..........feel that muzzle in your mouth, just like all those gigantic black c---s you've had rammed in your mouth...follow that urge, you'll never be anyone, you're a wanna be...a nobody....you think you're a f--king writer ? You think you're some kind of f--king Mickey Spillane ?!?! LOLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL ;) And oh, I know some twisted mutherf--kers in Chicago...behave yourself now boy.....I hope you sleep lightly.....
Well, D, I went to work. Then I went to get coffee with an old friend. A dime a dozen? Well, I don't know about that, but I prefer perfect-bound notebooks, as the spiral ones tend to mangle the pages, which then tear out too easily. I do most of my work on a word processor, though.
According to Monty Python, 37 is not old. They also had some nice things to say about John Denver, but that is neither here nor there. I don't have any urges to put any gun in my mouth, and as far as I know I've never done the other thing, but, hey, who knows, I mean I *did* have a few wild years back at school. (Sigh), suppose that would be my business, though, huh?
I sleep alright. I dream in color, too. Once, when I was 16 or so, I dreamt I was cutting class & got caught by the assistant principal. Then, I wished the situation could be a bit cooler ... wouldn't you know, all of a sudden I'm dreaming I'm on an airplane playing my guitar with Jimi Hendrix. He showed me some cool stuff and then said, "Excuse me, while I kiss the sky," and parachuted out of the plane. I believe the experts call that 'lucid dreaming,' but what would I know?
Chicago is a nice place, yes, but some folks can be twisted. I also know some twisted folks in the Ft. Myers area, as well as some cops.
best,
Scott
16 May, 2009
retrograde in spring (unf.'d)
curses, mercury
in concert w/a full moon
to leave me scattered
mad as a hatter
(aptly named, that element)
& what hard winter
to precede this turn
of events, the whole night sky
one cold roulette wheel
or concentric
opposite cyclones
spun out above this hemisphere
game-player of an imp, you!
return my phone calls!
my better letters!
in concert w/a full moon
to leave me scattered
mad as a hatter
(aptly named, that element)
& what hard winter
to precede this turn
of events, the whole night sky
one cold roulette wheel
or concentric
opposite cyclones
spun out above this hemisphere
game-player of an imp, you!
return my phone calls!
my better letters!
01 May, 2009
Where have you gone, Joe DiMaggio (magazines) ..
Who buys magazines anymore? Not talking your 'In Focus' or 'Celeb Snuff Gone Wild' stuff, but, you know ... those glossy, little stapled numbers with book reviews, album reviews & the like ...
... 15 years ago, I would rush to the mailbox for some of these guys ,,, I'd read a review of "Alien Lanes" in one, Welsh's "Filth" in another ...
Art has been fragmented, divided between the sell-it-nows and sell-it-howevers ... nobody creates to create. Well, almost nobody.
An old college friend's husband had a gig tonight. I really thought I'd make it, but I missed it. I'm sorry. I imagine it was a very good show.
Lou said it first, but I'm thinking it's the beginning/of a new age.
... 15 years ago, I would rush to the mailbox for some of these guys ,,, I'd read a review of "Alien Lanes" in one, Welsh's "Filth" in another ...
Art has been fragmented, divided between the sell-it-nows and sell-it-howevers ... nobody creates to create. Well, almost nobody.
An old college friend's husband had a gig tonight. I really thought I'd make it, but I missed it. I'm sorry. I imagine it was a very good show.
Lou said it first, but I'm thinking it's the beginning/of a new age.
10 April, 2009
really?
So, on the day the Sun-Times runs with a cover on how the CPD is gonna start cracking down on crosswalk violations, I was nearly hit by rude jag motorists three times. Two of these three were cabbies (go figure). I have yet to trek home, but the crosswalk On California by the blue line is pretty vicious ... one can only hope they sting that one.
06 April, 2009
pome-a-day, schmome-a-day, what are these deadlines ...
I always catch myself doing things I said I'd never do: Getting a tattoo, running a marathon, opening a bank account ... so, when I scoffed at a bunch of you last year or the year before when you did that 'pome a day for a month' during April (which, they tell me, is 'national poetry month), well, you knew me, and you knew you'd live to see me eat crow. Robert Brewer is hosting one of these pome-per-day shindigs on his blog and, for some reason, I have found myself rattling off little pieces for it, almost daily.
Now, I am an incredibly lazy writer. I mean, poor Matt Barton was on my ass for the better part of the second half of 2008 to write a piece on some mural at St. Paul's by the end of the year and I got it to him, I think, some time around January 10. All was well ... some of us have a different sort of clock for some things. I'm not always bad with deadlines -- I mean, I have dabbled in journalism, and was pretty good at getting that stuff wrapped up right & on time & whatever ... it's the creative stuff, though ... I don't rush it. Needless, I think it's at the very least a good excercise, so here went ...
The way this particular thing works is as follows -- each day, the blog directs the participant to a new 'prompt,' and the participant then constructs a pome around that prompt. Pretty simple. Anywhoo ... 5 or so days in, I've decided to post my entries to this point. Are they precious, little, talent-laden works ready for smarmy, ivory-towered literary honors? I don't think so, but they are sort of a nice window into process, or at least my process. anyway, here goes (I may have gotten a couple days out of order here, but you get the picture) ...
1 April (prompt = "origins")
AUTOBIO 101, lecture notes
Don’t hesitate
to embellish. “Born in a barn”
reads more interesting than
hospital reports to grab
the reader
as does conflict
btw. one’s parents’ in-law
conveys caste
from the cradle establishes
angle early. Chapter 1 is
all you’ve got. The best
writers began
as journalists.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
2 April (prompt = alienation/being an outsider)
DRANK UP A PARTY
found out for tipping a jitney in the sticks
of Long Island – ladies up from The City
for outlet mall shopping, who’d shared the backseat
from the depot w/N & me, ourselves there
for her friend’s wedding -- people I didn’t know
decked out in heavy taffeta bridesmaid gowns
in July’s hard, Atlantic humidity
tree-line wall around the Hamptons, private beach
ill @ ease, my neck raw from starch & sweating
unstable having forgotten vitamins
& my forced, two days too late apology.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
3 April (prompt = "the problem with ____________")
(I have yet to finish this one -- see, bad with deadlines, but they do give you until May 1)
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
4 April (prompt = Animal)
MOBY DICK, APPROXIMATELY
24 yrs. old, riffing on Melville
to impress a woman @ a party
after the bars have closed one Fri. night
& my friends from other bands are drinking
in the kitchen, taking turns picking out
new releases from Matador Records
to spin until sunup, when they might sleep
finally, or at least disperse & then
if the Melville reference does the trick
maybe she’ll accompany me to bed
ratty twin mattress on a ratty floor
of my old apt. @ 3rd & High
if she doesn’t stay, if she gets away
we’ll just call the flirtation ironic
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
5 April (prompt = Landmark)
THE HI-ROAD DRIVE-IN
we leadfooted down U.S. 68 past Dunkirk
headed to Columbus for a wedding
20 yr. old music from my boyhood
shuffling under the big W. OH sky
clear & cool @ noon on the 1st day
of spring & nearly blew by it to spite
our eyes peeled for it, anonymous, almost hidden
out the passengerside window, just beyond
the irrigation ditch, hemmed in by distant
treelines not yet leaved & the rumble of
tires on gravel in reverse to pull into
its dirt driveway, disembark & photograph
its sun & weather-bleached box office marquee recalling
tornados on Katie’s birthday, June ‘89
broke off & carried away the bigger part
of its whitewashed plywood screen, still unmended, to leave
the few who do come to see squinting
as if watching their grandparents’ portable TVs
appearing oblivious, it would seem, to the advances
of kids like me, there to lose/take cherries, now as then & back
in the now we frame the marquee, this
tumbleweed, if you will, to that cobwebbed corner of
my sentimental mind & take cover behind
the driver’s side door to skirt wind-kicked dust, resume driving
& sign aliases in an antique café guestbook
down the hwy in Kenton & marvel @ the unchanged
farm machines foreground to the yellow thaw
19th, to be exact, since I last blew through &
left behind & Stipe’s voice filling the car rings
apropos: Take a picture here. Take a souvenir.
Now, I am an incredibly lazy writer. I mean, poor Matt Barton was on my ass for the better part of the second half of 2008 to write a piece on some mural at St. Paul's by the end of the year and I got it to him, I think, some time around January 10. All was well ... some of us have a different sort of clock for some things. I'm not always bad with deadlines -- I mean, I have dabbled in journalism, and was pretty good at getting that stuff wrapped up right & on time & whatever ... it's the creative stuff, though ... I don't rush it. Needless, I think it's at the very least a good excercise, so here went ...
The way this particular thing works is as follows -- each day, the blog directs the participant to a new 'prompt,' and the participant then constructs a pome around that prompt. Pretty simple. Anywhoo ... 5 or so days in, I've decided to post my entries to this point. Are they precious, little, talent-laden works ready for smarmy, ivory-towered literary honors? I don't think so, but they are sort of a nice window into process, or at least my process. anyway, here goes (I may have gotten a couple days out of order here, but you get the picture) ...
1 April (prompt = "origins")
AUTOBIO 101, lecture notes
Don’t hesitate
to embellish. “Born in a barn”
reads more interesting than
hospital reports to grab
the reader
as does conflict
btw. one’s parents’ in-law
conveys caste
from the cradle establishes
angle early. Chapter 1 is
all you’ve got. The best
writers began
as journalists.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
2 April (prompt = alienation/being an outsider)
DRANK UP A PARTY
found out for tipping a jitney in the sticks
of Long Island – ladies up from The City
for outlet mall shopping, who’d shared the backseat
from the depot w/N & me, ourselves there
for her friend’s wedding -- people I didn’t know
decked out in heavy taffeta bridesmaid gowns
in July’s hard, Atlantic humidity
tree-line wall around the Hamptons, private beach
ill @ ease, my neck raw from starch & sweating
unstable having forgotten vitamins
& my forced, two days too late apology.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
3 April (prompt = "the problem with ____________")
(I have yet to finish this one -- see, bad with deadlines, but they do give you until May 1)
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
4 April (prompt = Animal)
MOBY DICK, APPROXIMATELY
24 yrs. old, riffing on Melville
to impress a woman @ a party
after the bars have closed one Fri. night
& my friends from other bands are drinking
in the kitchen, taking turns picking out
new releases from Matador Records
to spin until sunup, when they might sleep
finally, or at least disperse & then
if the Melville reference does the trick
maybe she’ll accompany me to bed
ratty twin mattress on a ratty floor
of my old apt. @ 3rd & High
if she doesn’t stay, if she gets away
we’ll just call the flirtation ironic
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
5 April (prompt = Landmark)
THE HI-ROAD DRIVE-IN
we leadfooted down U.S. 68 past Dunkirk
headed to Columbus for a wedding
20 yr. old music from my boyhood
shuffling under the big W. OH sky
clear & cool @ noon on the 1st day
of spring & nearly blew by it to spite
our eyes peeled for it, anonymous, almost hidden
out the passengerside window, just beyond
the irrigation ditch, hemmed in by distant
treelines not yet leaved & the rumble of
tires on gravel in reverse to pull into
its dirt driveway, disembark & photograph
its sun & weather-bleached box office marquee recalling
tornados on Katie’s birthday, June ‘89
broke off & carried away the bigger part
of its whitewashed plywood screen, still unmended, to leave
the few who do come to see squinting
as if watching their grandparents’ portable TVs
appearing oblivious, it would seem, to the advances
of kids like me, there to lose/take cherries, now as then & back
in the now we frame the marquee, this
tumbleweed, if you will, to that cobwebbed corner of
my sentimental mind & take cover behind
the driver’s side door to skirt wind-kicked dust, resume driving
& sign aliases in an antique café guestbook
down the hwy in Kenton & marvel @ the unchanged
farm machines foreground to the yellow thaw
19th, to be exact, since I last blew through &
left behind & Stipe’s voice filling the car rings
apropos: Take a picture here. Take a souvenir.
12 March, 2009
Gina, pobrecita (or, everything's great in America, for a small fee in america ...) ...
I'm listening to NPR this a.m. when I wake up. A pretty run-of-the-mill wakeup, but I'm struck by this human interest piece they run on how folks are actually saving more than they're spending in these recessionary/depressive times ...
So, they talk to this woman in L.A. named Gina. Gina is beside herself, wallows in despodence over having to now save what she once spent. No more mani/pedis. No more birthday parties for friends at swank eat/drinkeries. No more starbucks. Poor, poor Gina must now do her own fingers & toes. Poor, poor Gina must now cook her own meals (&, from the sound of it, learn the proper way to boil water). Poor, poor Gina must now brew her own Yuban (a "downgrade," she claims (IMO, not bad mass-market coffee, at all)) instead of swilling over-roasted, $2/pint Starbucks.
These, indeed, are the times that try our souls.
So, they talk to this woman in L.A. named Gina. Gina is beside herself, wallows in despodence over having to now save what she once spent. No more mani/pedis. No more birthday parties for friends at swank eat/drinkeries. No more starbucks. Poor, poor Gina must now do her own fingers & toes. Poor, poor Gina must now cook her own meals (&, from the sound of it, learn the proper way to boil water). Poor, poor Gina must now brew her own Yuban (a "downgrade," she claims (IMO, not bad mass-market coffee, at all)) instead of swilling over-roasted, $2/pint Starbucks.
These, indeed, are the times that try our souls.
10 February, 2009
What men talk about
no tissue is an issue
Last week, after work, I stop into a fast food joint for something on the way home. The neighborhood is sorta mixed, that area where R. North meets the Gold Coast near the SRO YMCA & the methadone clinic. You get all sorts from all stations in this joint, kinda like walking right into Terkel's Division St.
A bit grubby from the workaday, I hop into the john to wash my hands. In the stall, from the sound of things, is an older guy sing/talking to himself:
No tissue ... no-o-o-o-o tissue ... no tissue/is an issue ...
I have to laugh. I imagine this man's been handed many a lemon in life, and here he is, making light of things as they now are with his No T.P. Blues.
Which brings me to this theory I overheard somewhere. I think it was my mom or one of her friends, during an impromptu meetup of their She-Woman Man-Haters Club ...
We -- men, that is -- love to talk about our shit. Taking a shit, its regular/irregular consistency, the frequency w/which we do it ...
Pretty sure the aforementioned theory was about men never developing past the anal stage of early childhood. Dunno if it holds water (pun intended?) . I mean, they were all recently-divorced and also a tad tipsy, I think I recall ...
Last week, after work, I stop into a fast food joint for something on the way home. The neighborhood is sorta mixed, that area where R. North meets the Gold Coast near the SRO YMCA & the methadone clinic. You get all sorts from all stations in this joint, kinda like walking right into Terkel's Division St.
A bit grubby from the workaday, I hop into the john to wash my hands. In the stall, from the sound of things, is an older guy sing/talking to himself:
No tissue ... no-o-o-o-o tissue ... no tissue/is an issue ...
I have to laugh. I imagine this man's been handed many a lemon in life, and here he is, making light of things as they now are with his No T.P. Blues.
Which brings me to this theory I overheard somewhere. I think it was my mom or one of her friends, during an impromptu meetup of their She-Woman Man-Haters Club ...
We -- men, that is -- love to talk about our shit. Taking a shit, its regular/irregular consistency, the frequency w/which we do it ...
Pretty sure the aforementioned theory was about men never developing past the anal stage of early childhood. Dunno if it holds water (pun intended?) . I mean, they were all recently-divorced and also a tad tipsy, I think I recall ...
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