Tuesday, June 5, 2007


I'm at a poetry reading. Purely by accident. I would never knowingly attend something like this.

It's got an open mic component going on. It's really horrible...

The headliner cancelled. It's all open mic, now. No one knows when to clap. These people put dramatic pauses in at innopportune times, yet never seem to end.

We've got an unusual mixture of vegans, smoking up a storm out on the patio, and talking their PETA talk. Inside, oldsters are gathered around complaining about the slow going here. It's not organized, per se. There are several, seemingly normal people here, too.

The have three "leaders" at this thing. An old skinny guy that's waaaay to educated to be rubbing it in with such big words, a modern day beatnik with a kangol rather than a beret, and a stunningly beautiful woman who must really want me (I tire of that...). Only the beatnik seems normal, like he's not taking himself too seriously.

Right now, there's a bearded lady talking at the mic. That's correct. A little white beard. Not just a few hairs. Her poem is about fruit flies mysteriously eating her cheese. Cheese flies, I'd call them.

Eli was up, just before. He spent his four minutes setting up his schtick. He has a big floppy hat, plaid pants, and a peacoat that's strangely big, yet too small to button. He sets up an amp and plays music over the speaker as he sets up. I think it's his act. The oldersters think he's taking too long to start. I think he's almost over. It's his performance art. One minute of a child crying "Mommy, I want to go home" plays. Eli apologizes for playing the wrong thing. He introduces himself and pushes a button. A song starts. Eli plays the violin along with the music. He's pretty good. Then it's over. He apologizes for being out of breath.

I'm skipping the reviews of two typical boring ones.

Freestyle White Rapper up right now. He raps about how he's a black poet rapper on the inside. That's not obvious. It must be deep inside. Trapped. That was the worst thing I ever sat through.

This is like a 90s SNL skit. You know how they were sorta funny, then didn't really have an ending? That's where I am. 1992, I think.

I'm skipping the reviews of two typical boring ones. I need more "acts" to keep my attention.

There's a bilingual one going on at the moment. It's very awkward. How is the guy breathing in that shirt? The buttons are almost popping.

In case you're wondering, I won't be doing any poety here at the coffee house.

Here at the coffee house
People are reading
This is so awkward
I'm thinking of leaving
Burma Shave

I'm about out of here. I feel bad. Is it better to mosey during a "good" one or a bad one?


  1. LMAO ... I literally have tears running down my face!! I forgot about the whole California factor ... that must bring out a whole other wanna-be actor/entertainer group ... how funny!!

  2. Sounds like a fascinating blend of the stereotypical ranting poet with the stereotypical unintelligible poet. Lucky you!

  3. That's too funny. How the hell did you end up there anyway?

  4. I can't stop laughing! Tears welled up in my eyes with the white rapper review.


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