Saturday, March 17, 2007
Last Night at Pegasus
I don't want to be mean, but most of the trainwreck union had to bug out after the first poet last night, a little afraid of what might happen next if we all stayed.
Greenstreet read like someone much, much, much older than someone anyone would like to listen to. There was a great deal about salt, which is bad, because it only reminded me of being preserved like pork or some other fatty meat. Like maybe whale or something. I was busy apologizing to everyone I'd invited when Holmes came out, and I guess a few of us stuck around to see her, but no one talked about her, so I guess Greenstreet had successfully destroyed everyone's wills to live. I'm not sure if that's good or bad.
The night became about drinking at a little reading at Mo's beautiful flat where music was played and pomes were read. Mo, in case you're wondering, is the beautiful bartender at The Graduate. Chad Vogler, in a surreal turn of events played "Black Bird" on guitar while everyone screamed the lyrics. It's not the kind of song one hears screamed from the mouth of drunken poets, but there you go. Sara Mumolo and Connie Coady read some Vallejo in Spanish and English, respectively--nice enough on the ears and eyes, that. Jack pulled out his usual parlor trick and recited Shakespeare soliloquies in between his own stuff. Other people read and played and sang and did other such things, but I don't remember any of their names. They were all quite good, though.
The night ended in our typical fashion, with amazing tales of soul-grinding and bone-breaking. How are we to face St. Patrick today? Chasing our own snakes, we've got no time for Ireland's.
Next stop is probably going to be New Yipes at 21 Grand tomorrow night. I love New Yipes! David Larsen is an ingenious flyer-maker and poet. The readings are usually rather good. Who's reading? Who cares? Guess we'll find out.
I cannot wait to hear Connie Rose Coady's shit, btw; she is absolutely crazy, and crazy people, well, you know.