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08.09.04

Wacky night at the Subterranean Beat. EmCee-CeeCee was out of town so we had a guest host, MC-ER. The guy who started the Beat Revival showed up and there was much wingeing and whining about how the Beat wasn't what it was.

Waaah, waaah, waaah.

Of course it's not what it was. It's not then, it's now. Nostalgia is a disease of the over-indulged.

It started off well. Good energy, a lot of good words...but it went to shit as the evening progressed and people got more drunk.

The low point (for me, and many would differ) was the woman who got up on stage, pulled off her bathrobe, and read naked. Binkie and I decided that if you're gonna read naked, your words better be more good than good. But this woman whined, yipped, and blathered about calling in sick to work because she's sick of society, man. Here's what I wrote last night about it:

  • Naked tits do not a good poet make. You're no Annie Sprinkle. Primly perched on a chair, legs crossed, boobs akimbo. Big freakin' deal. Adenoidal whinings of over-privileged shits--with too much time--calling into work--at least you got a job--Oh, Calcutta was 30+ years ago--didn't get enough attention from mommy and daddy?--Y'know. I got my own tits, and I can take 'em out and play with 'em any time I want--deep, deep down she's shallow--now have a Coke and a smile and shut the fuck up!
  • Intolerant? Maybe, but crap is crap. She used the sensationalism of nudity to disguise the fact that she had nothing to say. Cheap theatrics. I'd rather be naked with my words.

    I talked to a few guys about the nudity after her set. To a man, after I said my piece, each one said, "Yeah. But boobies!" with childlike glee.

    I rest my case.

    Back one. ||||| Forward one.

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