Throwin' Down the Gauntlet...
"Regular readers" of this blog (and you surely have no real understanding of just how ludicrous a term that is) are probably sick and tired of my travel anecdotes. But it's only when I get back into town that I realize just how slow-paced life in the 'Burgh can be. Sure I get out regularly... but it's usually to meet up with friends and rehash our two or three staple conversations. So sometimes it does get a bit difficult to figure out what is worth sharing.
Anyway now that the disclaimer is out of the way, I'll relate just one more story from the road. On my last night in Chicago, my friend L. took me out to his favorite local dive- "The Long Room". Suffice it to say that this bar lives up to its name. It is dark (but clean) and has an extraordinarily long bar traversing its depth. The beer selection is fancy, and the prices are reasonable for the big city. This is the spot wherein L. meets up with his people and feels most comfortable slamming back a few Jameson's. So perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise when the topic of writing came up.
It started with a tremendously goofy interchange whereby we began to evaluate the quality of various rock group names. He's been listening to a band named the "Kings of Leon", and I remarked that I found this to be an incredibly bad choice, apart from the music itself. It's the kind of moniker that keeps me from ever giving the actual songs a chance. We started to exchange famous and infamous existing band-names, and offering our opinion on whether or not they were any good. I'll spare you the quotidian details of that segment of our conversation. As one might expect, our talk soon transitioned into a contest to come up with the best fictional band name.
I led off with my longstanding favorite- "The Yeti Family". Soon I ran through a list of others with various degress of sincerity, including "The Slipped Discs", "Labial Intentions", and "The Delectable Mountains". I almost spit up my beer with the suggestion of "Shaved Pussy". (You'll have to forgive me, for this is the type of stuff that two male buddies who aren't that into sports end up talking about when slugging alcohol.) This went on for awhile, until L. suddenly got quiet and then threw down the gauntlet. It turns out that he has been going through a resurgence of interest in singer-songwriting. But unlike many musicians, he's intrigued by the idea of adapting other people's word to music. He knows that I enjoy writing, so he told me to come up with a poem/song right there on the spot.
Now by this time I had already had several beers, so the pressure was on. I tried to beg off by saying that I had neither paper nor writing implement. In a matter of about two minutes, these tools materialized in front of me on the bartop. L. wasn't accepting any excuses. I don't even think he would have continued talking to me if I refused the task. So I sat staring down at the blank surface of the back of a register receipt, and tried to muster some words. Eventually L. had a touch of mercy, and provided a writing prompt- I was to riff on the topic of the competing gender strategies of dealing with life's more difficult moments. This was a reverberation of a conversation we had with one of his friends the previous night. After a bit of contemplation I hunkered down to the task, and in a matter of about ten minutes I had what could possibly pass for a poem/song.
Although I initially fought against the idea of such improvisational free-verse writing, I ultimately enjoyed it. Unfortunately I can't share the results here because I left L. with the only copy to see what he could come up with. Perhaps L. will send me a copy of those lyrics if he reads this post. But my point in recounting this incident is my rediscovery of the value of this type of writing exercise. I've kept my penchant for penning poetry a secret from most of my friends. In fact I've been doing it intermitttantly for about fifteen years. I have a small pile of examples buried somewhere. Yet I've always wondered whether or not it was a waste of time.
I actually did a public reading about a decade ago. About three people (in addition to the organizers) showed up. I felt self-conscious about doing that, but I found it rewarding in some strange nebulous way. Now that I have been keeping a blog for a year, my reticence about indulging this side of myself seems a bit ridiculous. I've been thinking that I might want to resume the practice. Sometimes the convergence of life's events subtly prods me in a new direction. L.'s challenge last week, along with Thad Kellstadt and Edgar Um's reading the week before, appear to be a sort of clarion call. I don't know if I'll share the product, but I foresee a period of poetry-writing in my near future.
Anyway now that the disclaimer is out of the way, I'll relate just one more story from the road. On my last night in Chicago, my friend L. took me out to his favorite local dive- "The Long Room". Suffice it to say that this bar lives up to its name. It is dark (but clean) and has an extraordinarily long bar traversing its depth. The beer selection is fancy, and the prices are reasonable for the big city. This is the spot wherein L. meets up with his people and feels most comfortable slamming back a few Jameson's. So perhaps it shouldn't have been a surprise when the topic of writing came up.
It started with a tremendously goofy interchange whereby we began to evaluate the quality of various rock group names. He's been listening to a band named the "Kings of Leon", and I remarked that I found this to be an incredibly bad choice, apart from the music itself. It's the kind of moniker that keeps me from ever giving the actual songs a chance. We started to exchange famous and infamous existing band-names, and offering our opinion on whether or not they were any good. I'll spare you the quotidian details of that segment of our conversation. As one might expect, our talk soon transitioned into a contest to come up with the best fictional band name.
I led off with my longstanding favorite- "The Yeti Family". Soon I ran through a list of others with various degress of sincerity, including "The Slipped Discs", "Labial Intentions", and "The Delectable Mountains". I almost spit up my beer with the suggestion of "Shaved Pussy". (You'll have to forgive me, for this is the type of stuff that two male buddies who aren't that into sports end up talking about when slugging alcohol.) This went on for awhile, until L. suddenly got quiet and then threw down the gauntlet. It turns out that he has been going through a resurgence of interest in singer-songwriting. But unlike many musicians, he's intrigued by the idea of adapting other people's word to music. He knows that I enjoy writing, so he told me to come up with a poem/song right there on the spot.
Now by this time I had already had several beers, so the pressure was on. I tried to beg off by saying that I had neither paper nor writing implement. In a matter of about two minutes, these tools materialized in front of me on the bartop. L. wasn't accepting any excuses. I don't even think he would have continued talking to me if I refused the task. So I sat staring down at the blank surface of the back of a register receipt, and tried to muster some words. Eventually L. had a touch of mercy, and provided a writing prompt- I was to riff on the topic of the competing gender strategies of dealing with life's more difficult moments. This was a reverberation of a conversation we had with one of his friends the previous night. After a bit of contemplation I hunkered down to the task, and in a matter of about ten minutes I had what could possibly pass for a poem/song.
Although I initially fought against the idea of such improvisational free-verse writing, I ultimately enjoyed it. Unfortunately I can't share the results here because I left L. with the only copy to see what he could come up with. Perhaps L. will send me a copy of those lyrics if he reads this post. But my point in recounting this incident is my rediscovery of the value of this type of writing exercise. I've kept my penchant for penning poetry a secret from most of my friends. In fact I've been doing it intermitttantly for about fifteen years. I have a small pile of examples buried somewhere. Yet I've always wondered whether or not it was a waste of time.
I actually did a public reading about a decade ago. About three people (in addition to the organizers) showed up. I felt self-conscious about doing that, but I found it rewarding in some strange nebulous way. Now that I have been keeping a blog for a year, my reticence about indulging this side of myself seems a bit ridiculous. I've been thinking that I might want to resume the practice. Sometimes the convergence of life's events subtly prods me in a new direction. L.'s challenge last week, along with Thad Kellstadt and Edgar Um's reading the week before, appear to be a sort of clarion call. I don't know if I'll share the product, but I foresee a period of poetry-writing in my near future.
Labels: Anecdote, Pittsburgh, Poetry, Travel
posted by Merge Divide at 5:06 PM
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