. . . someone walks out. And someone DID walk out of Patrick Rosal's reading. In fact, they walked out of the reading seven lines into the first poem.
I've been battling these "easily-offended" types who keep returning to the reading series I'm currently running. Why they return, I'll never know. Anyway, this is directed towards the man who gave me suggestions on how to run the reading series:
My co-coordinator and I have decided that despite your recommendations, we will continue to have readings by authors who are Black, Gay, Chicano, Asian, Jewish, Native American, Risk-Takers, Mayhem-Makers, and Outsiders. We will also happily invite people who write poems and stories where there is sadness, violence, grief, death, general discomfort. We regret that we cannot provide you a solid venue for your anesthetized version of entertainment, but we can recommend a decent pediatric office where you can read Highlights and spend hours on end circling the hidden items in the "Find the Hidden Objects!" page.
I have no interest in playing Muzak over the loud-speakers for an hour for the benefit of said "easily-offended" types.
Now. . . disclaimer aside, Patrick rocked. The students loved him and many of them walked away excited about poetry. You should've seen the line of folks anxious to speak with him after his reading. The audience did sing-alongs and hooted and hollered after almost every poem.
Also, Eduardo's talking about my good buddy, Jon Pineda who's not only "hot" but he's a fantastic person, poet, and father. Anyway, Eduardo also mentioned the Kundiman retreat that's coming up in July.
I'll be there again with my digital camera and several chips-worth of pictures. I think Jon Pineda's going to be there . . . we're trying to talk Barbara Jane into coming. It was a blast last year. For your edifiication, here's a look back at last years retreat.
Kudos must go out to Sarah Gambito and Joseph Legaspi AGAIN, for having the courage to dream and build.
The mercury's been going up and down this past week. Yesterday morning as I was walking to class, frigid gusts of air kept pushing the powdery snow all over the place. Stupidly, the school was snow-blowing while this was taking place, so more of the stuff was blowing around in front of doors, walkways, etc..
Today, however, it's a balmy 40 degrees and slightly rainy. It's a lousy day to run Jake, but I'll have to, otherwise he'll drive Meredith and I bonkers tonight with his incessant whining.
I predict we'll get more of the yo-yo weather through the weekend and all I want is a stable high of 40. Lord, give me 40 degree weather from now until April . . . please.
. . . watches the Super Bowl? I'll admit it. I love watching football, and I never miss the Super Bowl. Rest assured, I'll be watchhing this Sunday.
Does that make me a bad person? Is my appreciation of art and beauty called into question with every Flare, Slant, or Draw-Play?
I wonder if there are any contemporary poets out there who used to don the pads?
Last semester, Thom Ward came to my school to give a reading. He boldly talked about lacing up his cleats and kicking @$$ before a shocked auditorium. He still pumps iron, etc., but he mentioned how he suffers from gimpy knees because of his football days.
I also had the honor of hanging out at Austin Hummell's house while I was doing a visiting teaching gig up in Northern Michigan University. We were watching the NBA playoffs and snarfing macadamia nuts while looking over poems. I guess the two can happen simultaneously--art and physical grace.
Anyway, I'm a poet who so happens to be a sports nut. I'm going to be watching Super Bowl XXXIX for the sport, not for the commercials.