Poetry Reading

The other night at the Cartel, they had open mike poetry night unbeknownst to me. I figured if I hid out in one of the couches in the back, I could surreptitiously plug away listening to the ball games online while writing my daily “LAst Night’s Action” column for LAist. I seem to do a better job of getting writing done while away from the confines of my abode – which makes the whole “home office” thing a bit difficult to pull off unfortunately.

As I’m in oblivion plugging away writing some very witty things about the College World Series and the NBA free agency rumors, the lights dim. To my horror there are actually quite an audience congregated in this Redondo Beach coffee hovel to witness the crimes against the English language in all their rococo rot. But since I’m in the back no one should notice.

Unfortunately my optimism was killed when I noticed there were people surrounding me, on my couch even, in rapt attention to these self-styled wordsmiths as I tapped tapped tapped words onto my laptop.

As I put my laptop away in a moment of self consciousness, I decided to stay a while. After all I used to host an open mike night in Santa Barbara, so I do have some tolerance for all of this. Unfortunately I was mostly drunk and in my very early 20s when I did that, and as one ages the level of tolerance wanes in a logarithmic proportion.

There was one blonde headed guy there in his early 20s named Skippy – I kid you not. And even better he was wearing a motherfucking ascot. I’ll repeat that just so that it sinks.

Skippy was wearing an ascot.

He read something but I was very distracted by his ascot. I don’t know what was more depressing: the fact he shamelessly was rocking his ascot or the fact that I found him sorta cute. He was skinny in high school, but now he is putting on weight. It’s clear his prime is now.

Who the fuck am I kidding? I was skinny in high school and got fat in my 20s. I have journals upon journals with some god awful poetry scribbled all over. But at least I have a pretty face. And my personality. Someone shoot me.