09.06.04

Last evening I went down to the Rabbit Hole for the Sunday night Beat Poetry Revival.

The naked "poet" was there. She kept her clothing on. Her poetry was as egocentric, whiny, and inchoate as I remember. Her poetry is like picking up a glass, expecting iced tea, and getting Campari. The bad taste was washed away by several other poets. *phew*

There are a lot more women reading at this event, which is great. I'm weary of the "sausage fest" and enjoy hearing another point of view. Well. Mostly enjoy.

The previous host of the Beat cultivated a Kerouacian, almost exclusively male, "me-me-me" whine that was more about chest beating than poetry.

Ugh.

After the reading, a few people stayed on. Imagine this--a bar full of poets, drunkenly singing Oob-La-Dee, Oob-La-Dah, Hound Dog, then lurching into an a cappella (the CD player died) Che Sera, Sera, and finishing (the CD player revived) with I Wanna Be Sedated.

*shudder*

*laugh*

Another Sunday night in Southwest Portland.

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