On Sunday, the Poetry Slam, moved indoors, into the old used bookstore on Baker, the room is full. I'm late and so have to sit close to the front beside an older hippy. Carpet Vest guy isn't here, perhaps it's too far from his home under the bridge, or, as likely he's picked up with winter approaching and found himself better digs.
The standard readers, with an emphasis tonight on the older readers. Beside me the older hippy gets on the sign-up sheet, he'll be reading, not poetry, but a chapter from his upcoming book on his life in a commune...
When he gets up and begins reading it's clear it's not what should be read here, much like an agricultural report or dry biographical details of someone you have no interest in whatsoever. He's reading to us from Chapter 73 of his untitled Opus, in which he details the commune experience, "100 elders and 200 children, we worked 3 days on, 3 days off, except for the summer solstice....we talked about the Vedas and the Upanishads...we took turns minding the children..."
After about 5 minutes the host/mediator gently tries to cut him off...it's only supposed to be 3 minutes. "Almost done..." he barks, he's got to get this read....after another minute the bell rings, and he barks again "I'M NOT DONE YET!" as if he's paid for the time, and then, swearing at the hostess, the audience in general, he's lost his temper and he's as much swearing at himself for tipping his hand, all of this, and he storms out of the crowded bookstore. Your classic bad sport, your older hippie-asshole who's mastered the theory of some spiritual practice or another, but not the application, and if this reading was intended to reach or convert any new disciples it failed miserably. His was a heartfelt entitlement and arrogance, the first example I've seen at one of these readings.
It will be an interesting winter...