I would like to host and perform a reading. I need 3-4 people who want to do it. 7 readings each, no memorization. Should be able to perform not just read the reading. We would set up a program and do one big performance. It should be a free-form event with food. I have two on board, Charlie Rosenblume and myself.
We would probably need to this in a very open space with plenty of room for people to get up and move.
A couple sitting spots but it will be a standing event.
Some cookies, some juice, coffee
We will start advertising this week if we get our third person.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
Monday, December 2, 2013
Freaking Weird
Quite the experience, I must say.
A little bit of shock, a tad bit of awe, and a whole lot of "what the F*&!".
Grace and I attended this reading and we both agreed that the overall performers were just terrible. I couldn't judge them too harshly and I tried to enjoy their stories and poems, however the darkly lit back room bar in Kieran's pub was an amazing venue. It was designed like Mr. Findlay's office, many volumes of books sat on shelves decorating the entire room in a warming ambiance. Plenty of tables and comfortable chairs so we wouldn't have to sit too close to anyone. I wanted to just sit down in a dimly lit corner and pretend that no one could see or hear me, instead Grace and I sat in the corners so performers wouldn't have to see our awkward faces when they told of their latest sex crusade. Sadly the evening swayed this direction and took terrible turns along the way. We ended up listening to the good pastor John whatever his name read about how much he hated police sticking their fingers up people's butt-holes. He wrote 5 pages mostly filled with profanity and poor grammar. If someone had came and picked him up and moved him to the street, he would have kept on blabbing and whining the entire time. He had no care for the audience, only for the sound of his voice. It wasn't even a poem, or even a story at that. It sounded more like a middle school boy wanting to sound cool in front of his friends. Well no one in that room was his friend, not me, or Grace, or the poet who wrote of the lesbian sex crusade in the form of Poe's Raven. It was actually kind of interesting, the way she incorporated her life into the form of a very famous poem. However her poem, like the good pastor John's, fell to the plague of profanity and her initially emphatic use of the f-word moved to an idiomatic form to give off a comfortable atmosphere with the word. This kind of toned down her overall piece and thus I toned out.
There was one exception to all the bad that the night had brought, the final performer, a story teller who told the story of an imaginary dog named fido... or maybe cupid, cosmo? Hell if I know, I was on my fourth lemonade and the night was growing old like my grandpa, who is also forgetting plenty of things at his age. Her story was a bit more descriptive however I thought it could have been much better. While more descriptive she did not go much further into each adjective. When she claimed something was blue, that's all that it was. I never thought I would find myself saying this, but she used far too many weak verbs. I forget plenty so my reaction derives from much contemplation on the night. It could have been the zing from the lemonade, the dust from the books, or the craziness of being in a new place. In any case, it was freaking weird.
A little bit of shock, a tad bit of awe, and a whole lot of "what the F*&!".
Grace and I attended this reading and we both agreed that the overall performers were just terrible. I couldn't judge them too harshly and I tried to enjoy their stories and poems, however the darkly lit back room bar in Kieran's pub was an amazing venue. It was designed like Mr. Findlay's office, many volumes of books sat on shelves decorating the entire room in a warming ambiance. Plenty of tables and comfortable chairs so we wouldn't have to sit too close to anyone. I wanted to just sit down in a dimly lit corner and pretend that no one could see or hear me, instead Grace and I sat in the corners so performers wouldn't have to see our awkward faces when they told of their latest sex crusade. Sadly the evening swayed this direction and took terrible turns along the way. We ended up listening to the good pastor John whatever his name read about how much he hated police sticking their fingers up people's butt-holes. He wrote 5 pages mostly filled with profanity and poor grammar. If someone had came and picked him up and moved him to the street, he would have kept on blabbing and whining the entire time. He had no care for the audience, only for the sound of his voice. It wasn't even a poem, or even a story at that. It sounded more like a middle school boy wanting to sound cool in front of his friends. Well no one in that room was his friend, not me, or Grace, or the poet who wrote of the lesbian sex crusade in the form of Poe's Raven. It was actually kind of interesting, the way she incorporated her life into the form of a very famous poem. However her poem, like the good pastor John's, fell to the plague of profanity and her initially emphatic use of the f-word moved to an idiomatic form to give off a comfortable atmosphere with the word. This kind of toned down her overall piece and thus I toned out.
There was one exception to all the bad that the night had brought, the final performer, a story teller who told the story of an imaginary dog named fido... or maybe cupid, cosmo? Hell if I know, I was on my fourth lemonade and the night was growing old like my grandpa, who is also forgetting plenty of things at his age. Her story was a bit more descriptive however I thought it could have been much better. While more descriptive she did not go much further into each adjective. When she claimed something was blue, that's all that it was. I never thought I would find myself saying this, but she used far too many weak verbs. I forget plenty so my reaction derives from much contemplation on the night. It could have been the zing from the lemonade, the dust from the books, or the craziness of being in a new place. In any case, it was freaking weird.
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