Wednesday, April 6, 2011
First Wednesday Reading: Blackbird Wine & Atomic Cheese (503-282-1887). 4323 NE Fremont.
This month’s readers at Blackbird Wine Shop are Oregon Book Award finalist Bette Husted, Dorothy Brunsman poetry prizewinner Robert Hill Long, poet and Scottish-Gaelic music performer Carter McKenzie, and translator and novelist Anita Sullivan.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Lineage: Oregon Poets Reflect on American Poetry Since 1950. The Cleaners at the Ace Hotel: 403 SW 10th. Five poets read and recap events of the poetry world over the last six decades. Authors include David Biespiel (founder of the Attic Institute), Donna Henderson, Henry Hughes, Jennifer Richter, Zachary Schomburg, and Crystal Williams.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Smalldoggies PDX008 / THE GLOBE
Hosted by Matty Byloos & Carrie Seitzinger.
Featuring writers: Derrick Brown, Frances Dinger and Rob Noble. Musical Guests: to be announced.
The Globe, 2054 SE Belmont St, Portland, OR 97214. 7:45pm. Free event, $3 donation suggested.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
If Not For Kidnap Reading Series Event (readers to be announced soon…)
As usual, the last Tuesday evening of the month is the night of splendor in the Southeast for writers, poets and musicians who grace the living room of Donald Dunbar and Jamalieh Haley. 3968 SE Mall St., Apt A, Portland, OR 97202. Free, 8pm. Visit INFK website for details.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Verse in Person: Poetry Readings; Fourth Wednesday of every month, 6:30-8 p.m.
Multnomah County Library (503.988.5560); 2300 NW Thurman St.
Selected Oregon poets read from their works.
How Does One Achieve the Perfect Level of Uncaring?
It may seem easy on paper (or on screen—and take note, I’m only humoring you horrible sticklers for the literal to further emphasize how caring about shit is fucking stupid), but in practice, this is quite possibly the most complicated and involved aspect of one’s style. This is not something to slough off at the end of the day—relegated to mingle with your girlfriend’s jeans and your crisp, shiny white belt as they lay twisted and shunned like our generation’s convictions. This shit must permeate your very existence. This is sub-dermal—just below the viscera, nestled in the lumpy, viscous, gelatinous goo of your being. This is something you can’t take off.Seems easy, right? Wrong bitches!
Yeah, I spent my month’s rent at American Apparel to buy a bag full of shit that looks like it was stolen from the set of a Huey Lewis music video but it’s no big thing. I only shop there cause it’s two blocks from my apartment. I just throw this shit on in the dark when I wake up at noon, hung over from ironically pounding mojito’s (I mean, come on … who really drinks that shit?) and 13 Pabst Blue Ribbons at some back-alley dive bar, in my Ikea-by-way-of-thrift-store outfitted studio apartment.
Scotty Suicide Further Unpacks the Concept of the Aloof Hipster
There is still nothing down there.
Convincing, yes? But, dear friends, truth is, you must care. You must carefully assemble your nonchalance. There’s a delicate balance between looking like you don’t give a shit and looking like a filthy disease bag. The goal is to teeter on the edge—draw the attention of those around you who may, initially, glance over with contempt searing their eyes as they suck in a stuttered breath, careful not to breath the same air as you: some grubby hobo-looking blight on the property value of this or that trendy neighborhood—only to realize, hey, he looks like a festering pile of shit but there’s something there in his gait, his demeanor, his candor that is too carefree to suggest chronic alcoholism or homelessness.
Also, if I’m not mistaken, those hermetically sealed pants were just featured on an episode of I’m cooler than you. Ya see, even if you were butt ass naked, you still need to be a veritable black-hole of uncaring.
Yeah, I’m nakes … but whatevs…
You gotta wear it in the eyes—or slathered across an ennui-slackened countenance. Your goddamn nuts could suddenly explode and you would have to keep strolling along, unfazed.
Fucking nuts. Fuck those things anyway, just hanging there all wrinkly and dumb.
I So Dont Whatevs Enough to Whatevs.
This, my friends, is your most essential accessory (not the nuts) — an all encompassing and somewhat abrasive aloofness. Shit!
Baby Smokers. Double soft-headed whatevs.
With practice, one day you’ll change your ring tone to the sound of someone shrugging—your views on war and oil spills and politics will all be condensed into one, barely perceptible roll of the eyes—you’ll tow your Prius behind your Hummer tossing Taco Bell wrappers into the wind, smoking Organic American Spirits with a baby in the passenger seat—the people around you will bleed together, melding like rain-soaked clay into one gigantic heap of suddenly apparent mediocrity. But all this is good. You know why? Cause people suck.
This is anti-posturing—a detached hubris bordering on the comatose. One step above dead. People should fear your vapid stare—as though they were gazing into the abyss—nearly touching a cosmic unknown—an emptiness so expansive it threatens to swallow all those caught in its darkened wake. Allow me to illustrate with a hypothetical interaction between the callously aloof and your run of the mill mall-going idiot.
My eyes just imperceptibly shifted. But who cares.
Idiot: “Hey man.”
Callously Aloof: “(nearly imperceptible shifting of the eyes)”
Idiot: “Wha’cha doing?”
Callously Aloof: “(shrugs)”
Idiot: “You going to that party tonight?”
Callously Aloof: “(heavy exhale—as though this interaction is completely exhausting—followed by the slowest blink imaginable—also, absently cleaning the nails or chewing on cuticles is acceptable)”
Idiot: “Uh… cool. You hungry? Wanna get some food or something?”
Callously Aloof: “(if it’s possible, now is when you should fall asleep)”
If the person speaking to you doesn’t implode at that point, you’re doing something wrong.
So there you have it. I hope you’ve learned something. Or not. Don’t care.